“Very well: only give me time to change my dress, and I will ride back with you! Francis must find me a horse! Sit down, Moffat: I shall not keep you waiting many minutes!”
“Your Grace!” Moffat, looking extremely worried, made a detaining gesture.
“Yes, what is it?” the Duke said impatiently.
“Your Grace, I don’t know how to say it—and I beg your Grace’s pardon for what may offend you! But I know young Mudgley, and—and he wouldn’t—not for a moment!—he wouldn’t be agreeable to—to—”
The Duke’s puzzled frown vanished. “He wouldn’t take my leavings, eh? Excellent fellow! No, no, Moffat, it’s nothing of the sort, I promise you! She is staying in Bath under Lady Harriet Presteigne’s protection. I do hope Mudgley will believe me! Is he a fine, lusty fellow? Well, I shall depend upon you to guard me from his vengeance, if he doesn’t believe me!”
He vanished leaving his bailiff to start after him in great perplexity.
Nettlebed, upon being summoned to lay out his master’s riding-breeches and coat, demurred at once. He said that his Grace would be quite knocked-up with all this dashing about the country, and a ball on the top of it.
“Help me out of this coat!” ordered the Duke.
“Now, your Grace, do but listen to reason!” begged Nettlebed.
“Nettlebed, do you wish me to run away from you again?” demanded the Duke.