"Pish!" cried Sir Guy testily.
"And—there's your favourite old bitch."
"I am not thinking of old bitches!" quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.
Another pause ensued: the knight had released her chin, and taken her hand;—it was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry.
"Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight, thoughtfully; "you must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child."—Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post.
Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other:—in such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his companion.
"Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing;—"if, indeed, I could find such another!"—He was talking to his thought, but Beatrice Grey answered him.
"There's Madam Fitzfoozle."
"A frump!" said Sir Guy.