Frank instantly and gladly claimed kindred.
"Then," said the girl, smiling, "as this young man's politeness seems to have fallen asleep, I must e'en be master of the ceremonies, however improper it may be. So I beg to present to you young Squire Thorncliff Osbaldistone, your cousin, and Die Vernon, your accomplished cousin's poor kinswoman."
The "accomplished cousin" finally decided to shake hands with mingled awkwardness and an assumption of sulky indifference. This being done, he immediately announced his intention of going to help the huntsmen couple up the hounds, and so he took himself off.
"There he goes," said the young lady, following him with disdainful eyes, "the prince of grooms and cock-fighters and blackguard horse-racers. But truly there is not one of them to mend another!"
She turned sharply upon Frank.
"Have you read Markham?" she demanded.
Poor Frank had never even heard of that author. The girl held up her hands in horror.
"Never to have heard of Markham—the Koran of this savage tribe—the most celebrated author on farriery!" she cried. "Then I fear you are equally a stranger to the more modern names of Gibson and Bartlett?"
"I am, indeed, Miss Vernon," answered Frank, meekly.
"And do you not blush to own it?" she cried. "Why, we will disown the alliance. Then I suppose you can neither give a ball, nor a mash, nor a horn?"