"What do you say, Pat?"—like the other, she always called him Pat, because he was an Irishman, I suppose. "What do you say? Don't you think that we ought to stop and see the fun? Doesn't the thought of a roasted ox tempt you? We could dance on the green, you know."
He answered her with a laughing look, and just touched the top of her head with his lips. Never, I think, was Sir Nicolas so far gone with any woman as he was with Janet Oakley, and I knew by his way that he'd fight strong before he gave her up.
"Did you find the letter I sent you for?" he asked me presently, and when he'd done looking at her.
"No, sir, I did not," replied I, knowing well that he meant to ask me about the telegram. "It seems to me that it's been delivered at the wrong address."
"Are we likely to get it back again?" he continued, meaning to ask me, "Are we likely to weather the mistake?"
"I fear not, sir," said I; and dark as it was I could see him bite his lip with vexation.
"What's it all mean?" cried Miss Oakley now. "Has that silly old Barker been losing your letters?"
"I fear he has," said Sir Nicolas, "or worse than losing them—he's been presenting them to other people."
"He's a dreadful person," said she, "so prim and old-fashioned. He always puts his gloves on to deliver a telegram. It's quite an event in his history. I am sure he enters it in his family Bible."
