It was now Saint David’s day, when he never failed to be a visitor to the castle, and he had brushed out the lining of his coach, and put himself in his best array, to do honour to the festival, at which he knew Cecilia would preside. His person was not eminently graceful, for he was a round, red-faced gentleman, neither tall of stature, nor light of limb; but his apparel bore the faded marks of ancient splendor, and his huntsman had bestowed uncommon pains in frizzing out a huge white perriwig, which he had powdered with no sparing hand. Sir Owen was at no time apt to be an idle looker-on whilst the bottle was in circulation, and on the present occasion he had charged himself more than usually high to encounter an opposition, which he had reason to expect would be more than usually stubborn; for though due consideration had been paid to his rank, and he had been placed at table close beside the lady, who presided at it, fortune had not favoured him with any striking opportunities for displaying his address, or advancing himself in her good graces. On the contrary he had been rather unlucky in his assiduities, and in his eagerness to dispute the ladle had overset the soup, with sundry other little misadventures, incidental to an awkward operator and an unsteady hand. It is perfectly well understood, that the worthy baronet had pledged himself to his privy counsellor the huntsman for vigorous measures; confessing to him, whilst assisting at his toilette, with the candour natural to his character, that he was ashamed of hanging so long upon a cold scent, and protesting, with a due degree of spirit, that he would that very day either bring the trail to an entapis, or give up the chace, and draw off; for which manly resolution he had all proper credit given him by the partaker of his secrets, and the companion of his sports.