“Egad, then, I will not,” declared Comyn. “I protest I am satisfied.”
Then I was presented. He had won me on the instant with his open smile and frank, boyish manner.
“And this is young Mr. Carvel, whom I hear wins every hunt in the colony?” said he.
“I fear you have been misinformed, my Lord,” I replied, flashing with pleasure nevertheless.
“Nay, my Lord,” Mr. Lloyd struck in; “Richard could ride down the devil himself, and he were a fox. You will see for yourself to-morrow.”
“I pray we may not start the devil,” said his Lordship; “or I shall be content to let Mr. Carvel run him down.”
This Comyn was a man after my own fancy, as, indeed, he took the fancy of every one at the ball. Though a viscount in his own right, he gave himself not half the airs over us provincials as did many of his messmates. Even Mr. Jacques, who was sour as last year's cider over the doings of Parliament, lost his heart, and asked why we were not favoured in America with more of his sort.
By a great mischance Lord Comyn had fallen into the tender clutches of my Aunt Caroline. It seemed she had known his uncle, the Honourable Arthur Comyn, in New York; and now she undertook to be responsible for his Lordship's pleasure at Annapolis, that he might meet only those of the first fashion. Seeing him talking to Patty, my aunt rose abruptly from her loo and made toward us, all paint and powder and patches, her chin in the air, which barely enabled her to look over Miss Swain's head.
“My Lord,” she cries, “I will show you our colonial reel, which is about to begin, and I warrant you is gayer than any dance you have at home.”
“Your very devoted, Mrs. Carvel,” says his Lordship, with a bow, “but Miss Swain has done me the honour.”