'
'Twopence for your thoughts!' cried Lucy, trotting up, and touching him
gently on the back with her light silver-mounted riding-whip. 'Twopence for
your thoughts!' repeated she, as Mr. Sponge sauntered leisurely along,
regardless of the bitter cold, followed by such of the hounds as chose to
accompany him.
'Ah!' replied he, brightening up; 'I was just thinking what a deuced good
run we'd had.'
'Indeed!' pouted the fair lady.
'No, my darling; I was thinking what a very pretty girl you are,' rejoined
he, sidling his horse up, and encircling her neat waist with his arm.
A sweet smile dimpled her plump cheeks, and chased the recollection of the
former answer away.
It would not be pretty--indeed, we could not pretend to give even the
outline of the conversation that followed. It was carried on in such broken
and disjointed sentences, eyes and squeezes doing so much more work than
words, that even a reporter would have had to draw largely upon his
imagination for the substance. Suffice it to say that, though the
thermometer was below zero, they never moved out of a foot's pace; the very
hounds growing tired of the trail, and slinking off one by one as the
opportunity occurred.
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