'Fine girl that was, whom we met at the gathering the other day,' said the captain.
'Aw—vewy, for a Scots girl—but, aw—a little metaphysical,' responded Snobleigh, sleepily cracking a nut.
'Magnificent hand and arm, though!'
'Aw—rathaw—but she was so dooced pwoud.'
'She will have something handsome, gentlemen,' said Mac Fee, draining a glass of champagne at one vulgar gulp; 'when the people give place to fine fat sheep on her land. She is an heiress, and when six or eight of the small farms are formed into one—and you are pleased with her, captain?'
'f thought her the prettiest of all pretty girls—but flirting with her—pass the claret, thanks—would be mere waste of powder. I must keep my ammunition for better game.'
'Aw—Laura Everingham, I presume,' said Snobleigh, with a little spite in his eye and tone.
The Captain coloured slightly; a shade of annoyance crossed his brow, and regardless that I and others were present, Snobleigh continued to chatter away; and even this exasperated me, for misfortune had rendered me unduly sensitive.
'I assure you, Clavering, that girl Everingham will come in for a jolly good thing or two, when Sir Horace departs to a better world. I—aw—fished it all out of old Snaggs the other night by quoting Blair, and passing the bottle, so I'm a devilish good mind to—'
'What—pop the question, eh?'