“I believe I am accounted so,” replied Sir Richard.
“Well, supposing you were to drive in your own curricle? Then I could get up behind, and pretend to be your Tiger, and hold the yard of tin, and blow up for the change and—”
“No!” said Sir Richard.
She looked disappointed. “I thought it would be exciting. However, I dare say you are right.”
“I am right,” said Sir Richard. “The more I think of it, the more I see that there is much to be said for the stagecoach. At what hour did you say that it leaves town?”
“At nine o’clock, from the White Horse Inn, in Fetter Lane. Only we must go there long before that, on account of your servants. What is the time now?”
Sir Richard consulted his watch. “Close on five,” he replied.
“Then we have not a moment to lose,” said Miss Creed. “Your servants will be stirring in another hour. But you can’t travel in those clothes, can you?”
“No,” he said, “and I can’t travel with that cravat of yours either, or that abominable bundle. And, now I come to look at you more particularly, I never saw hair worse cut.”
“You mean the back, I expect,” said Miss Creed, unresentful of these strictures. “Luckily, it has always been short in front. I had to chop the back bits off myself, and I could not well see what I was about.”