"Nay, nay," says I, "the game waits for me, Pen—I must go."
But at this moment, as luck would have it, Bentley reappeared, nor was I ever more glad to see him.
"Aha, man Dick," cries he, wagging his finger at me. "Walk in the rose-garden, was it? Oh, for shame, to so abuse my confidence—Dick, I blush for thee; and Jack's a roaring for thee, and the game waits for thee; in a word—begone! And to-day, Pen," says he, as I turned away, "to-day is Friday!" and he stooped and kissed her pretty cheek.
I had reached the terrace when I stopped all at once and, moved by a sudden thought, I turned about and hurriedly retraced my steps. They were screened from sight by one of the great yew hedges, but as I approached I could hear Bentley's voice:
"His horse?" says Bentley.
"Yes," says Pen, "and Saladin's such a quiet old horse as a rule!"
"But what's his horse got to do with it?" says Bentley.
"Why, you were there, Uncle Bentley. Saladin jibbed, didn't he, just as father had one foot in the stirrup ready to mount?"
"Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley. "Did Jack tell you all that, Pen?"
"Who else?" says she, "'twas you caught his bridle, wasn't it?"