“Not hurt, I hope!” holloas the Earl, who with Miss de Glancey now lands a little above, and seeing the Hatter rise and shake himself he canters on, giving Miss de Glancey a touch on the elbow, and saying with a knowing look, “That’s capital! get rid of him, leggings and all!”
His lordship having now seen the last of his tormentors, has time to look about him a little.
“Been a monstrous fine run,” observes he to the lady, as they canter together behind the pace-slackening pack.
“Monstrous,” replies the lady, who sees no fun in it at all.
“How long has it been?” asks his lordship of Swan, who now shows to the front as a whip-aspiring huntsman is wont to do.
“An hour all but five minutes, my lord,” replies the magnifier, looking at his watch. “No—no—an hour ‘zactly, my lord,” adds he, trotting on—restoring his watch to his fob as he goes.
“An hour best pace with but one slight check—can’t have come less than twelve miles,” observes his lordship, thinking it over.
“Indeed,” replied Miss de Glancey, wishing it was done.
“Grand sport fox-hunting, isn’t it?” asked his lordship, edging close up to her.
“Charming!” replied Miss de Glancey, feeling her failing frizette.