CHAPTER X. 



A RED-LETTER DAY WITH THE DUKe's. 



The day following the Hunt Ball, the meet of the Duke's 

 hounds, in mercy to the overnight revellers, was fixed for 

 half -past eleven, instead of eleven, the usual hour. Punctual 

 to the moment, the Duke, looking as fresh as a four-year-old, 

 a bunch of Neapolitan violets in his coat, and his hat set on 

 with an extra jaunty air, cantered up to the tryst. He looked 

 as if he had gone soberly to bed at ten o'clock, instead of 

 having danced till three in the morning. Eonald Dennison 

 was there on Marmion. The horse looked fit and well, and 

 seemed considerably more at his ease in the big ring snaffle 

 his new owner had put on him, than he had ever done under 

 either the Crocker or Binkie regime, with a deep ported curb. 

 Adela was not looking quite at her loveliest ; the overnight 

 fatigue had taken a good deal out of her, and her cheeks 

 lacked their usual soft colour. But she was beautiful under 

 any circumstances, and the Duke but awaited the departure 

 of Gravity in the mail phaeton — which happy event would 

 take place as soon as hounds moved off — to join his inamorata. 

 Just as His Grace pulled out his watch for the twentieth 

 time, preliminary to giving the word, our friends, Binkie 

 on the new brown, Sir Tommy on his hireling, and Jack 

 Dashwood riding the cobby little black horse, cast up. 



