"I think I see'd my Lord Antony's horse out in the yard,
father," she said, as she ran across the coffee-room.
But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the
next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy
rain, was round pretty Sally's waist, while a hearty voice echoed
along the polished rafters of the coffee-room.
"Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty
Sally," said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband
came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of
one of the most favoured guests of his hostel.
"Lud, I protest, Sally," added Lord Antony, as he deposited a
kiss on Miss Sally's blooming cheeks, "but you are growing prettier
and prettier every time I see you--and my honest friend, Jellyband
here, have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours.
What say you, Mr. Waite?"
Mr. Waite--torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of
that particular type of joke--only replied with a doubtful grunt.
Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter,
was in those days a very perfect type of a young English
gentlemen--tall, well set-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face,
his laughter rang loudly whereever he went.
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