'Do not ride the horse,' said she, entreatingly. 'From what I hear, he is beyond you.'
'Is he?' snarled Sir Paget, who was in one of his worst humours this morning. 'But let me tell you, Lady Puddicombe, that I know something about the choice of a horse, if I don't about the choice of a wife!'
Eveline shrank back at this rude speech, and thought that, sooth to say, he knew little how to choose either.
'Well—ride the horse, if you will,' said she, resignedly.
'I shall!' he replied, sharply.
Lucretia detected that something was wrong, and, raising her voice in reply to something the Squire of Furzydown had said, she exclaimed, laughingly,
'Ah, yes, the country is indeed glorious; for here you can have eggs to breakfast that are laid while your hair is being dressed, and flowers on the table fresh with the morning dew on them—yet, I love London most, after all, especially in the season. And now,' she added, 'shall my Charlie have its nicey, nicey breakfast of cream?'
And she emptied a silver jug of the latter into a china bowl for her wheezy spaniel.
'What's up with old Sir Peter Teazle?' whispered her brother.
'That is more than I can tell you, Harry.'