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King Cole enjoyed the scurry across country to the full as much as his mistress, and expressed his pleasure by shaking his head and reaching hard at his bit. Laura Chipchase's horse was also roused by the smart canter at which they were going, and began to pull unpleasantly. "Let him go, Laura," cried Miss Bloxam; "the King, too, is fidgeting most uncomfortably.
Lady Mary, sad to say, received this statement with the utmost incredulity, and mentally arraigned her own offspring of duplicity; but whether Jim or Blanche was the traitor she could not determine. Could she but have peeped over Sylla Chipchase's shoulder as that laughter-loving damsel read Pansey Cottrell's note, she would have been both enlightened and astonished.
Master Chipchase's knees gave from under him. "And your honours please," he cried piteously, "I killed the lamb, but 'twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel's order, who was in town with his Excellency." Carvel's custom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a year, your honours. And I am a poor man, sirs." "Who is it owns your shop, my man?" asks Mr. Bordley, very sternly.
Master Chipchase's knees gave from under him. "And your honours please," he cried piteously, "I killed the lamb, but 'twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel's order, who was in town with his Excellency." Carvel's custom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a year, your honours. And I am a poor man, sirs." "Who is it owns your shop, my man?" asks Mr. Bordley, very sternly.
Wriothesley is sitting in her pretty little drawing-room listening to Sylla Chipchase's spirited account of her visit to Todborough Rectory. "It was great fun," continued the girl. "Lady Mary Bloxam was thoroughly convinced, and no doubt is still, that I was setting my cap at Lionel Beauchamp.
Master Chipchase's knees gave from under him. "And your honours please," he cried piteously, "I killed the lamb, but 'twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel's order, who was in town with his Excellency." Carvel's custom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a year, your honours. And I am a poor man, sirs." "Who is it owns your shop, my man?" asks Mr. Bordley, very sternly.
Bloxam, that is it. It's not missed, but a miss. There are lots of words, you know, begin with 'miss." Some slight delay, during which the soft dreamy music still falters unceasingly from Laura Chipchase's fingers, and then the curtain once more begins to ascend. There is no such sensational effect as a pistol-report to startle the audience this time. The scene represents a lady's dressing-room.
Those around her were listening with no little interest to Sylla Chipchase's badinage.
The leading trio, in the meanwhile, lost in all the exultation of a good gallop, and in utter ignorance of Sylla Chipchase's fall, kept on without slacking rein till they once more found themselves near the high-road, sweeping round from the point they had left it to this, in an arc, by traversing the chord of which they had saved about a mile; and now, looking round for the remainder of the party, discovered, to their surprise, that they were nowhere in sight.
Montague has no wish to hold you to so foolish a wager." "Certainly not," interposed Montague; "I have no wish whatever to press it. The match, I assure you, is of Miss Chipchase's making, not mine." "Ah, well, then," exclaimed Sylla, "perhaps it is my obstinacy, not my rashness. I can be obstinate, you know, Lionel; but you will run for me all the same, won't you?"
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