"Talking o' luck," pursued Alvaston, sorting his cards lazily, "never had any measure of it yet, either with cards, dice, horses or the sex. An' talkin' o' the sex, Tony my lad, what of its brightest and most particular, what of Bet, how speeds th' wooing?" Mr. Marchdale swore earnestly. "Oho!" murmured Alvaston, "doth she prove so cold and indifferent——"
"Neither one nor t'other, but I must ha' more time."
"Three days must suffice, Tony, 'twas so agreed. After you comes Ben and after Ben, Jasper and then after Jasper, West, with poor Ned and me left nowhere."
"Aye, but damme," quoth the Marquis, "what o' Dalroyd here?"
"Aye, where d'you come, Dalroyd?" queried Alvaston.
Mr. Dalroyd's nostrils worked and his white teeth gleamed. "I come nowhere, anywhere or everywhere," he answered, surveying his hearers beneath lowered eyelids. "A free-lance in love, I—to woo precisely how and where and—when, I choose." Here for an infinitesimal space of time his keen eye rested on the Major.
"You always were such a dem'd dumb dog!" quoth the Marquis.
"Close as 'n oyster!" murmured Alvaston.
"And he's lucky in cards and love, which ain't fair," grumbled Mr. Marchdale. "I've heard whispers of a handsome farmer's daughter not a hundred miles hence—eh, Dalroyd?"
"'Tis your turn to lead, Marchdale!" said Mr. Dalroyd, his lips a little grim.