I won't have politics
talked in my presence, no! Dammy, Peter, hold your tongue, sir!"
Dorothy, wearing the lilac spray, vaulted lightly into her saddle, and I
mounted my mare. Stirrup-cups were filled and passed up to us, and we
drained a cooled measure of spiced claret to the master of the
pleasure-house, who pledged us gracefully in return, and then stood by
Dorothy's horse, chatting and laughing until, at a sign from Sir Lupus,
Cato sounded "Afoot!" on his curly hunting-horn, and the patroon wheeled
his big horse out into the road, with a whip-salute to our host.
"Dine with us to-night!" he bawled, without turning his fat head or
waiting for a reply, and hammered away in a torrent of dust. Sir George
glanced wistfully at Dorothy.
"There's a district officer-call gone out," he said. "Some of the
Palatine officers desire my presence. I cannot refuse. So ... it is
good-bye for a week."
"Are you a militia officer?" I asked, curiously.
"Yes," he said, with a humorous grimace. "May I say that you also are a
candidate?"
Dorothy turned squarely in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.
"At the district's service, Sir George," I said, lightly.
"Ha! That is well done, Ormond!" he exclaimed. "Nothing yet to
inconvenience you, but our Governor Clinton may send you a billet doux
from Albany before May ends and June begins--if this periwigged beau,
St.
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