“Then let us shake hands and be good friends; as cousins we ought to like each other. And since there is no likelihood of our being married, there is no reason why we should be enemies.” I pressed her hand warmly, laughing at her queer speech, and her blunt manner; but admiring too. At this moment the door opened, and in came my uncle, who had evidently entered the house by one of the side doors. “I wish persons would knock when they come into a room,” I whispered with soft significance, releasing her hand, and catching sight of the conscious blush with which she received the remark she had herself greeted me with not very long before. My uncle here burst into a roar of laughter. “Good friends, hey?” cried he; “now, then, we shall be happy!” And running up to the piano, he strummed and sang: Time and chance are but a tide, Ha! ha! the wooing o’t! Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha! ha! the wooing o’t; Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty dizzie dee? She may gae to France for me! Ha! ha! the wooing o’t! Than which nothing could be more ludicrously inappropriate. “I thought you weren’t coming back until lunch-time,” said I. “I met a fellow with a message from my man to say he couldn’t meet me,” he answered. CHAPTER VIII. “But now we talk of mounting steed.” _Hudibras._ After lunch I wrote to Conny. I should like to see that letter now. I composed it as one of Johnson’s poets wrote poetry: “with an incessant ambition of wit;” mentioned that little affair with O’Twist, but made no further reference to Teazer’s treatment (holding that both she and her father would expect my silence); asked if I was missed, if there was anybody at Grove End who would particularly care to see me back again; diversified my pregnant sentimental “asides” with well laboured bursts of cynicism, and concluded four pages of close writing with a very eloquent, “Believe me,” &c. As I addressed the envelope, Theresa came into the library, and asked me if I would ride with her. “I should greatly enjoy a ride,” I answered, hardily; “but you mustn’t expect to find me a very good horseman. However, providing my horse doesn’t rear, I daresay I shall be able to hold on.” “You shall have papa’s horse. He is very quiet.” “I don’t think I could take a gate,” said I. “Oh, we’ll keep to the main road.” This being settled, she went to get on her habit. I was rather sorry I had no straps by me. I am aware that they are not much worn by riders; but depend upon it, they are very useful to incipient horsemen, since they prevent the trowsers from mounting up to the knees, should the horse grow at all distracted. Hat-guards are also valuable. Indeed, a bad rider ought to be sewn into his clothes; and it would not be sometimes amiss, if his clothes were also tacked on to the saddle.