The voice of Mabbey said:
“He was always a dark horse, Foliot: It 's always the dark horses that get let in for this kind of thing”; and there was a sound as though he licked his lips.
“They say,” said the voice of the host, “he never gives you back a greeting now. Queer fish; they say that she's devoted to him.”
Coming so closely on his meeting with this lady, and on the dream from which he had awakened, this conversation mesmerised the listener behind the hedge.
“If he gives up his huntin' and his shootin', I don't see what the deuce he 'll do; he's resigned his clubs; as to his chance of Parliament—” said the voice of Mabbey.
“Thousand pities,” said Sir James; “still, he knew what to expect.”
“Very queer fellows, those Foliots,” said the Commodore. “There was his father: he 'd always rather talk to any scarecrow he came across than to you or me. Wonder what he'll do with all his horses; I should like that chestnut of his.”
“You can't tell what a fellow 'll do,” said the voice of Mabbey—“take to drink or writin' books. Old Charlie Wayne came to gazin' at stars, and twice a week he used to go and paddle round in Whitechapel, teachin' pothooks—”
“Glennie,” said Sir James, “what 's become of Smollett, your old keeper?”
“Obliged to get rid of him.” Shelton tried again to close his ears, but again he listened. “Getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs last season.”