"I don't see Mr. Dalroyd's name here, Tom!" said the Major, thoughtfully, as he led the way into the house.
"Nay sir, I protest Dalroyd's a queer fish! But as to this cravat I was describing, 'tis a modification of the Steenkirk——" and the Viscount plunged into a long and particular account of the article, while in obedience to the Major's command, bottle and glasses made their appearance.
"But surely 'tis not a question of clothes hath kept you in London this week and more, Tom?"
"Nay sir, I've been on a quest. London, O pink me 'tis a very dog-hole, 'tis no place for a gentleman these days unless he chance to be a Whig or a damned Hanoverian——"
"Hold, Tom!" said the Major, his quick eyes roving from door to lattice. "Have a care, lad!"
"Nay sir, I know I'm safe to speak out here and to you, Whig though you be. Of late I've perforce kept such ward upon my tongue 'tis a joy to let it wag. Indeed, nunky, London's an ill place for some of us these times, party feeling high. 'Tis for this reason you find Alvaston and Ben and Alton and the rest of 'em rusticating here, not to mention—my lady Bet."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Major. "You don't mean that she—she is not——?"
"No sir! But there is her brother, poor Charles is bit deep, he crossed the Border with Derwentwater last year."
"I feared so!" sighed the Major, frowning at his half-emptied glass. "And you, Tom, you're not——?"
"Sir, my rascally father, as you'll mind, was a staunch Whig and Hanoverian, naturally and consequently I'm Tory and Jacobite——"