"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted He looked
rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition from
outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax-candles made him
blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha-ha's" in different keys,
was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered himself in a second.

"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne;
hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller; you got the start of me, all of
you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening."

"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us.

"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;"
and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch.

"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I.

"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for
all I can say: I was better engaged."

"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were."

"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a
diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his
cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I
wish you had been with us."

"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all
the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't
return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my
word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I
ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so
very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her."

"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied
Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption.
But it was lost upon Hurst.

"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane; "I dare say he has
let her know it himself already."

"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating any thing so decided;
"but Miss Leicester _is_ a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say,
decidedly; there's a shade of one can hardly call it rusticity--about
her manner; but I like it, myself--I like it."

"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily.

"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to
quaver again--

"Queen of my soul, whose"--

"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to
the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be awa