As it was, he answered with fine suavity.
"There is no true patriot, Sir Felix, but desires an accelerated
increase in our population just now, whether male or female. I trust
your good lady's zeal may be rewarded by a speedy recovery."
Sir Felix fairly capered. "Accelerated! Acc--" he began, and,
choking over the word, turned and caught sight of the Dragoons as
they emerged from the woods, the sunlight flashing on their
cuirasses.
He fell back against the pedestal of a leaden effigy of Julius Caesar
and plucked his dressing-gown about him with fumbling bewildered
hands. Was the whole British Army pouring into his peaceful park?
What had he done to bring down on his head the sportive mockery of
heaven, and at such a moment?
But in the act of collapsing he looked across the balustrade and saw
the Major's face suddenly lose its colour. Then in an instant he
understood and pulled himself together.
"Hey? A hunt breakfast, is it?" he inquired sardonically, and turned
to welcome the approaching troop. "Good morning, gentlemen! You
have come to draw my covers? Then let me suggest your beginning with
the plantation yonder to the right, where I can promise you good
sport."
It was unneighbourly; an action remembered against Sir Felix to the
close of his life, as it deserved to be. He himself admitted later
that he had given way to momentary choler, and made what amends he
could by largess to the victims and their families.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154