t Sir Guy removed the
flower from his mouth, and pulled out his cigar-case.

"Have a weed, Miss Coventry!" said he, with his detestable leer. "Of
course you smoke; any one who can tool 'em along as you do _must_ be
able to smoke. Mine are very mild, let me choose one for you."

I accepted his offer, though I had considerable misgivings as to
whether it would not make me sick. I looked round to see how my cousin
approved of all these goings on, and particularly this last cigar
movement. He was sitting with his back to us, reading the morning
newspaper, apparently totally indifferent to my proceedings. That
decided me. I would have smoked now if there had been a barrel of
gunpowder under my nose. I didn't care how sick it made me! I lit my
cigar from Sir Guy's, I suffered him to put his horrid red face close
to mine. I flirted, and laughed, and drove, and puffed away as if I
had been used to these accomplishments all my life. I rattled through
the turnpike without stopping to pay, as if it were a good joke. I
double-thonged a sleeping carter over the face and eyes as I passed
him. My near leader shied at a wheelbarrow, and I _almost_ swore as I
rated him and flanked him, and exclaimed,--

"Confound you, _I'll_ teach you to keep straight!"

As we drove into the Park at Scamperley--for I fearlessly rounded the
avenue turn, and vowed I would not abandon the reins till I had
delivered my load at the front door--even Frank was completely
disgusted. My cousin took not the slightest notice, but kept his seat
with his back turned to the horses, and was still deep in his
newspaper. Sir Guy was delighted; he shouted, and grinned, and swore
more than ever. I was a "trump"--I was a "girl of the right sort"--I
was a "well-bred one"--I had no end of "devil" in me--I was fit to be
a "queen!" Whilst the object of all these polished encomiums could
willingly have burst out crying at a moment's notice; indeed, she
would have found it an unspeakable relief; and felt as she had never
felt before, and as she trusts in heaven she may never feel again.

It was a lovely spot Scamperley--beautiful as a dream--with the quiet
woodland beauty of a real English place. Such timber! Such an avenue!
I wonder if any of the sporting dandies and thoughtless visitors who
came down "to stay with Scapegrace" because he had more pheasants and
better "dry" (meaning champagne) than anybody else ever thought of the
many proprietors those old oaks and chestnu