"As June roses."

"And you are returning to London, are you not?"

"I am."

"When do you wish to proceed?"

"To-morrow."

"Why, then, sir, I have a proposal to make which will remove
the need of your note of hand. Lend me your horses, sir, to
reach Harwich. I wish to set out at once "

"But your wound?" cried Cynthia. "You are still faint."

"Faint! Not I. I am awake and strong. My wound is no wound,
for a scratch may not be given that name. So there,
sweetheart." He laughed, and drawing down her head, he
whispered the words: "Your father." Then turning again to
Foster. "Now, sir," he continued, "there are four tolerable
posthorses of mine below, on which you can follow tomorrow to
Harwich, there exchanging them again for your own, which you
shall find awaiting you, stabled at the Garter Inn. For this
service, to me of immeasurable value, I will willingly cede
those gewgaws to you."

"But, rat me, sir," cried Foster in bewilderment, "tis too
generous - 'pon honour it is. I can't consent to it. No, rat
me, I can't."