In the boudoir of Marion Wade were two beautiful women. Marion herself was one; Lora Lovelace the other.
The high-crowned beaver hats; the close-fitting habits of green velvet; the gauntlets upon their hands; and the whips in them, proclaimed the two ladies to be those, for whom the sidesaddle horses had been caparisoned.
Both had given the finishing touch to their toilettes, before forsaking their separate chambers. They had met in Marion’s sitting-room—there to hold a moment’s converse, and be ready when summoned to the saddle.
“Walter promises we’ll have fine sport,” said the little Lora, tripping across the chamber, light as a fawn, and gay as a lark. “He says the mere has not been disturbed for long—ever so long—and there have been several broods of herons this season—besides sedge-hens, snipe, and woodcock. We shall find game for goshawks, kestrels, jer-falcons, merlins, and every sort. Won’t it be delightful?”
“Pleasant enough, I dare say—for those who can enjoy it.”
“What, Marion! and will not you—you so fond of falconry, as often to go hawking alone?”
“Ah, Lora! this sport, like many others, may be pleasanter alone, than in company—that is, company one don’t care for.”
“Dear me cousin! you’d make believe, that there isn’t one, among the grand people we are going to meet to-day, worth caring for?”
“Not one—of my knowing.”
“What! our very gallant guest, who is to be our escort—not Captain Scarthe?”