As the two valets were not riding behind, but were abreast with their master, and conversing with him in loud and noisy familiarity, I soon recognised my cousin Tony the Foxhunter, an interview with whom I would fain have avoided; but he knew me at once, and came brusquely up, checking his horse, with foam upon its bit, so close to me, that I was nearly knocked over.
"Zounds, cousin Basil!" said he, insolently, and in the hearing of his valets, "you are in a fine scrape now!"
"How, sir?" said I, sourly.
"So you have levanted from old Wylie's—or been turned adrift—'tis all one, for making love to his niece—eh—is this true?"
"I have no confidences to make to you, sir," said I, haughtily, for the idea that I had placed Ruth—she so innocent and pure—in a position so false, filled me with remorse and rage.
"No confidences," stammered Tony; "eh—damme?"
"None."
"Oh, it is of no use denying it; we have just ridden from old Wylie's this morning. We don't blame you for making love to the girl—she is deuced pretty, and we all agreed it was just what we should have done ourselves."
"We—who do you speak of?"
"Why, Tom, Dick, and myself," he replied, pointing to his servants; "and no bad judges either of the points and paces of a woman or a horse."