He set us all a-laughing.

“I fear you were not born a diplomat, sir,” says Patty.  “You agree that we are beautiful, yet to hear that one of us is more so is small consolation.”

“We men turn as naturally to Miss Manners as plants to the sun, ma’am,” he replied impulsively.  “Yet none of us dare hope for alliance with so brilliant and distant an object.  I make small doubt those are Mr. Carvel’s sentiments, and still he seems popular enough with the ladies.  How now, sir?  How now, Mr. Carvel?  You have yet to speak on so tender a subject.”

My eyes met Patty’s.

“I will be no more politic than you, my Lord,” I said boldly, “nor will I make a secret of it that I adore Miss Manners full as much.”

“Bravo, Richard!” cries Patty; and “Good!” cries his Lordship, while Betty claps her hands.  And then Comyn swung suddenly round in his chair.

“Richard Carvel!” says he.  “By the seven chimes I have heard her mention your name.  The devil fetch my memory!”

“My name!” I exclaimed, in surprise, and prodigiously upset.

“Yes,” he answered, with his hand to his head; “some such thought was in my mind this afternoon when I heard of your riding.  Stay!  I have it!  I was at Ampthill, Ossory’s place, just before I left.  Some insupportable coxcomb was boasting a marvellous run with the hounds nigh across Hertfordshire, and Miss Manners brought him up with a round turn and a half hitch by relating one of your exploits, Richard Carvel.  And take my word on’t she got no small applause.  She told how you had followed a fox over one of your rough provincial counties, which means three of Hertfordshire, with your arm broken, by Heaven! and how they lifted you off at the death.  And, Mr. Carvel,” said my Lord, generously, looking at my flushed face, “you must give me your hand for that.”

So Dorothy in England had thought of me at least.  But what booted it if she were to marry a duke!  My thoughts began to whirl over all Comyn had said of her so that I scarce heard a question Miss Tayloe had put.

“Marry Chartersea!  That profligate pig!” Comyn was saying.  “She would as soon marry a chairman or a chimneysweep, I’m thinking.  Why, Miss Tayloe, Sir Charles Grandison himself would scarce suit her!”

“Good lack!” said Betty, “I think Sir Charles would be the very last for Dorothy.”