"What on earth is to be done with this brute beast?" muttered his lordship, taking care, however, that the query should not reach the subject of it. "I must get rid of him—I must speak with the girl privately—what the deuce is to be done?"
They walked on a little further in perfect silence. At length his lordship stopped short and exclaimed,—
"My dear major, I am a very dull companion—quite a bore; there are times when the mind—the—the—spirits require solitude—and these walks are the very scene for a lonely ramble. I dare venture to aver that you are courting solitude like myself—your silence betrays you—then pray do not stand on ceremony—that walk leads down toward the river—pray no ceremony."
"Upon my conscience, my lord, I never was less inclined to stand on ceremony than I am at this moment," replied the major; "so give yourself no trouble in the world about me. Nothing would annoy me so much as to have you think I was doing anything but precisely what I liked best myself."
Lord Aspenly bowed, took a violent pinch of snuff, and walked on, the major still keeping by his side. After a long silence his lordship began to lilt his own sweet verses in a careless sort of a way, which was intended to convey to his tormentor that he had totally forgotten his presence:—
"Tho' Chloe slight me when I woo,
And scorn the love of poor Philander;
The shepherd's heart she scorns is true,
His heart is true, his passion tender."
"Passion tender," observed the major—"passion tender—it's a nurse-tender the like of you and me ought to be looking for—passion tender—upon my conscience, a good joke."