“Ah, M’Whirter!” said the latter. “How do you feel yourself this morning? None the worse of your tumble yesterday, I hope? Mere accident, you know. Spiwited cweature Masaniello, it must be confessed. ’Gad, if you can make him go the pace as well to-day, you’ll distance the whole of the rest of them.”
“Oh, Mr M’Whirter! I’m so glad to see you!” said Edith. “How funny you looked yesterday when you were running away! Do you know that I waved my handkerchief to you as you passed, but you were not polite enough to take any notice?”
“Indeed, Miss Bogle, I had something else to think of at that particular moment.”
“You were not thinking about me, then?” said Edith. “Well, I can’t call that a very gallant speech.”
“I’ll lay an even bet,” said Roper, “that you were thinking more about the surgeon.”
“Were you ever wounded, Mr Roper?” said I.
“Once—in the heart, and incurably,” replied the coxcomb, with a glance at Edith.
“Pshaw! because if you had been, you would scarce have ventured to select the surgeon as the subject of a joke. But I forgot. These are times of peace.”
“When men of peace become soldiers,” retorted Roper.
“I declare you are very silly!” cried Edith; “and I have a good mind to send both of you away.”