"Aye, faith!" yawned Alvaston, "Now is the witching hour when graveyards yawn——"
"No, no, Bob!" laughed Dalroyd, "Now is the witching hour when beauty coy doth flush and furtive steal to raptures dreamed by day. Now is the witching hour when satyrs in compelling arms——" he yawned, smiled and rose. "Howbeit sirs, I am summoned hence——"
"Ah—ah!" nodded Marchdale, "The farmer's daughter—the beauty o' the blue cloak—ha, lucky dog!"
"A blue cloak!" repeated Mr. Dalroyd, "Egad, your fellow's too infernally observant, Marchdale, you should really kick him a little." So saying, Mr. Dalroyd crossed to the corner and took up his sword, "Adieu gentlemen," said he, "I go, shall we say, a-satyrizing—no, 'twould shock our Ben, none the less I—go. Gentlemen, I salute you!" And bowing to the room Mr. Dalroyd sauntered away.
"Burn me!" exclaimed Alvaston, "the wine's near out, let's order up 'nother dozen or so an' make a night on't." This being agreed, the bottles presently made their appearance, glasses clinked and the company began to grow merry. But after two or three toasts had been called and honoured, the Major arose, made his excuses, and calling for his hat, sword and cane, presently took his departure.
CHAPTER XXXIII
DESCRIBING SOMETHING OF COQUETRY AND A DAWN
It was a glorious summer night, the moon riding high in a cloudless heaven, a night full of a tranquil quietude and filled with the thousand scents of dewy earth. Before him stretched the wide road, a silver causeway fretted with shadows, a silent road where nothing moved save himself.
Thus, joying in the beauty of the night, Major d'Arcy walked slowly and took a roundabout course, and a distant clock chimed the hour of one as he found himself traversing a small copse that abutted on his own property.