“Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,” said Heathcock, stretching himself; “I wish I could forget my existence, for, in my mind, existence is a horrible bore.”
“I thought you was a sportsman,” said Williamson.
“Well, sir?”
“And a fisherman?”
“Well, sir?”
“Why look you there, sir,” pointing to the flies, “and tell a body life’s a bore.”
“One can’t always fish or shoot, I apprehend, sir,” said Heathcock.
“Not always—but sometimes,” said Williamson, laughing; “for I suspect shrewdly you’ve forgot some of your sporting in Bond-street.”
“Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now!” said the colonel, retreating again to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could venture without imminent danger.
“‘Pon honour,” cried Lady Dashfort, “I can swear for Heathcock, that I have eaten excellent hares and ducks of his shooting, which, to my knowledge,” added she, in a loud whisper, “he bought in the market.”