“I always knew that.”

“Whisht now, Jack! Ye’ll have to take one of my nags while she heals, if ye won’t stay with us. Can ye trust her to me for a week, do ye suppose?”

“I don’t know. It seems as though I must⁠—oh, I retract, I retract. You are altogether too large, the day is too hot, and my cravat too nicely tied⁠—Egad, Miles! I wish⁠—oh, I wish we were boys again, and⁠—Yes. When may I see your son and heir?”

“Sure, ye may come now and find Molly, who’ll be aching for the sight of you. Afther you, Sir Anthony Ferndale, Bart!”