He did not seem to notice her hesitation. “Yes, what we call a nonpareil—quite a nonesuch! As I recall, he was used to drive a pair of grays in a perch phaeton he had. I have often coveted them.”
“All the driving men did so. I believe Sir Henry Peyton bought them when—You are a member of the F.H.C. yourself, I dare say?”
“Yes, though I am not very frequently in London. To own the truth, to be continually driving a barouche to Salt Hill and back becomes a trifle flat.”
“Yes, indeed, and always at a strict trot!”
“You drive yourself, Miss Rochdale?”
“I was used to. My father had a phaeton built for me.” Again she turned the subject. “You are a hunting man also, sir?”
“Yes, but I rarely hunt in Sussex. It is indifferent country. I have a little place in Leicestershire.”
She relapsed into silence, which was unbroken until she suddenly said, “Oh, this is absurd! I must surely wake up soon, and find that I have been dreaming!”
“I am afraid you must be tired indeed,” was all he replied.
She was so much provoked that she sat for some time cudgeling her brain to think of some remark that might disconcert him. She found it. “I am sure I do not know why you have forced me into this carriage, or why you are in such haste to bring me to your cousin, my lord,” she said, “for without a license I cannot possibly be married.”