'It is a bit of romance, Laura, love,' said Miss Clavering, with one of her brightest smiles; 'do not the place, the costume, and the whole affair, remind you of—what is it—you remember the book, Mr. Snobleigh?'
'Eh—aw, yaas,' was the languid reply; 'but do you admire the costume, eh? I was once nearly dispensing with the superfluous luxury of pantaloons myself, and, aw-aw, exchanging from the Grenadier Gawds into an 'Ighland corps, which threw us into the shade in the Phoenix Pawk.'
'The deuce you were,' said Clavering; 'that would be to commence the sliding-scale, Snob, my boy; from the Guards to the line, and from thence'—
'Eh—aw—to the dawgs.'
'You are a noble fellow,' said Laura Everingham to Callum; 'and I shall never, never forget you!'
Callum bowed.
'Give my dearest love to Mrs. Mac Innon—the kind old lady your mother,' she added to me; 'and say that I shall ever remember her kindness—poor dear old thing—and she so ill too!'
'Aw—Snaggs, old fellow—do you think she has any knowledge of the aw—aw—second sight?'
'Why?' inquired Snaggs, with a furtive glance at me.
'I have made up a devilish heavy book on the Derby, and wondaw rathaw which horse will win,' said Snobleigh.