"Oh! you know he can't do that: but wasn't he mad?"
"Quite mad," I assented; "as mad as a March hare."
"Well, and how ever did you get him home?"
"How ever, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us, fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way."
"You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe——"
"I assure you it is fact—and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would not stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and would ride outside."
"And afterwards?"
"Afterwards—when we did reach home—the scene transcends description."
"Oh, but describe it—you know it is such fun!"
"Fun for you, Miss Fanshawe; but" (with stern gravity) "you know the proverb—'What is sport to one may be death to another.'"
"Go on, there's a darling Timon."
"Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart."
