"I wish," said my friend, as he plied the oar, "that we had stayed a little longer at Richmond. I think one more bottle of claret, tête-à-tête, would have been vastly agreeable."
"I should not have disliked it myself," said I. "Is it impossible to repair the mischief?—is there no agreeable retreat on these shores, in which we may solace ourselves for our imprudence?"
"No," said my friend; "the Eel-pie House is a wretched hole—the inns at Twickenham are all inland—there is nothing marine short of the Toy, and we are to part long before I reach that much-loved spot."
"Then," said I, "we must make up our minds to the evil, and bear it as well as we can."
At this moment we were under the bank of a beautiful garden, upon which opened a spacious bow-windowed dinner-room, flanked by an extensive conservatory. Within the circle of the window was placed a table, whereon stood bottles and decanters, rising, as it were, from amidst a cornucopia of the choicest fruits. Around this table were seated a highly-respectable family; a portly gentleman, whose cheeks and chin gave ample evidence that such refections were "his custom always in the afternoon," and near him a lady, evidently his better, if not his larger half—on either side bloomed two young creatures, unquestionably the daughters of the well-fed pair. Our appearance, although the lawn was some twenty or thirty yards in depth, had caught their attention, as their respective forms and figures had attracted our notice.
"There," said I, "this scene is exhibited to us by our evil genius, to tantalize us with the prospect we may not enjoy."
"You are wrong," said Daly, "quite wrong—be quiet—beautiful girls, cool wine, and agreeable society, are worth making a dash for. Those girls will we become acquainted with—that society will we join—those wines will we imbibe."
"Do you know them?" said I.