“Begging your pardon, sir, but I took it on myself to order the colour, and hoping it wasn’t a liberty.”
“Claret and invisible green—a duplicate, but for a bullet-hole wanting.”
“Which I didn’t like to go so far on my own hook, Mr. Anne.”
“We fight under the old colours, my lad.”
“And walk in and win this time, sir, strike me lucky!”
While we bowled along the first stage towards London—Mr. Romaine and I within the chaise and Rowley perched upon the dickey—I told the lawyer of our progress from Aylesbury to Kirkby-Lonsdale. He took snuff.
“Forsitan et hæc olim—that Rowley of yours seems a good-hearted lad, and less of a fool than he looks. The next time I have to travel post with an impatient lover, I’ll take a leaf out of his book and buy me a flageolet.”
“Sir, it was ungrateful of me——”
“Tut, tut, Mr. Anne. I was fresh from my little triumph, that is all; and perhaps would have felt the better for a word of approbation—a little pat on the back, as I may say. It is not often that I have felt the need of it—twice or thrice in my life, perhaps: not often enough to justify my anticipating your example and seeking a wife betimes; for that is a man’s one chance if he wants another to taste his success.”
“And yet I dare swear you rejoice in mine unselfishly enough.”