“He’s a wonderful fellow, ain’t he?” said Harry, winking agreeably at Charles; “I never knew a bran new husband that wasn’t. Wait a bit and the gold rubs off the ginger-bread—Didn’t old Dulcibella—how’s she?—never buy you a ginger-bread husband down at Wyvern Fair? and they all went, I warrant, the same road; the gilding rubs away, and then off with his head, and eat him up slops! That’s not bad cognac—where do you get it?—don’t know, of course; well, it is good.”
“Glad you like it, Harry,” said his brother. “It was very kind of you coming over here so soon; you must come often—won’t you?”
“Well, you know, I thought I might as well, just to tell you how things was—but, mind, is any one here?”
He looked over his shoulder to be sure that the old servant was not near.
“Mind you’re not to tell the folk over at Wyvern that I came here, because you know it wouldn’t serve me, noways, with the old chap up there, and there’s no use.”
“You may be very easy about that, Harry. I’m a banished man, you know. I shall never see the old man’s face again; and rely on it, I sha’n’t write.”
“I don’t mean him alone,” said Harry, replenishing his glass; “but don’t tell any of them Wyvern people, nor you, Alice. Mind—I’m going back to-night, as far as Barnsley, and from there I’ll go to Dawling, and round, d’ye mind, south, by Leigh Watton, up to Wyvern, and I’ll tell him a thumpin’ lie if he asks questions.”
“Don’t fear any such thing, Harry,” said Charles.
“Fear! I’m not afeard on him, nor never was.”
“Fancy, then,” said Charles.