“I tell thee, lying dog,” he cried, “I saw him ride into the yard, and, 'fore George, he shall give me the chance of mending my losses. Be off to your father, you Devil's natural.”
Cynthia looked up in alarm, whereupon that merry blood catching sight of her, halted in some confusion at what he saw.
“Rat me, madam,” he cried, “I did not know—I had not looked to—” He stopped, and remembering at last his manners he made her a low bow.
“Your servant, madam,” said he, “your servant Harry Foster.”
She gazed at him, her eyes full of inquiry, but said nothing, whereat the pretty gentleman plucked awkwardly at his ruffles and wished himself elsewhere.
“I did not know, madam, that your husband was hurt.”
“He is not my husband, sir,” she answered, scarce knowing what she said.
“Gadso!” he ejaculated. “Yet you ran away from him?”
Her cheeks grew crimson.
“The door, sir, is behind you.”