No street singer could lift his voice in the Square but what Hubert or Cecilia would declare it to be Lord Bromford serenading Sophy; when he was confined to his house for three days with an internal disorder he was held to have fought a duel for the sake of her fine eyes; and the serial story of his adventures in the West Indies, conceived, added to, and improved upon by three fertile brains, grew so outrageous as to draw protests from Lady Ombersley and Miss Adderbury. But Lady Ombersley, though she might deprecate such an excess of high spirits, could not help but be amused by the determination shown by Lord Bromford in his pursuit of her niece. He was forever calling in Berkeley Square on the most slender of pretexts; he daily promenaded in the Park only to waylay Sophy and be taken up into her phaeton; he even purchased a showy hack, and rode solemnly up and down the Row every morning in the hope that she might be exercising Salamanca there.

More wonderful still, he prevailed upon his mama to cultivate the acquaintance of Lady Ombersley and to invite Sophy to go with her to one of the Concerts of Ancient Music. He was impervious to snubs, and when his mama hinted to him that Sophy would scarcely make a suitable wife for a serious man, being wholly given over to frivolity, he said that he was confident that he would be able to direct her thoughts into more sober channels.

The cream of the jest, thought the young Rivenhalls, was that Charles, in general so impatient of pretension, was, for inscrutable reasons, encouraging his lordship. Charles said that there was a great deal of good in Lord Bromford. He said that Lord Bromford’s conversation showed him to be sensible and that his descriptions of Jamaica were extremely interesting. Only Selina (who was growing up, Charles said, to be disagreeably pert) ventured to observe that Lord Bromford’s entrance into the house seemed to be the signal for Charles’s departure for his club.

What with his lordship’s courtship, the plans for the ball, the stream of visitors to the house, even Sophy’s indiscretion, life in Berkeley Square had become all at once full of fun and excitement. Even Lord Ombersley was aware of it. “By God, I don’t know what’s come over you all, for the place was used to be as lively as a tomb,” he declared. “I’ll tell you what, Lady Ombersley. I daresay I can prevail upon York to look in on your party. Nothing formal, y’know, but he’s fixed in Stableyard for the present and will very likely be pleased enough to drop in for half an hour.”

“Prevail upon the Duke of York to come to my party?” echoed Lady Ombersley, in the greatest astonishment. “My dear Ombersley, you must be out of your senses. Ten, or perhaps twelve couples, getting up a dance in the drawing room, and a couple of card tables set out in the Crimson Saloon! I beg you will do no such thing!”

“Ten or twelve couples? No, no, Dassett would not be talking of red carpets and awnings for such a paltry affair as that!” said his lordship.

These ominous words struck a chill into his wife’s soul. Beyond fixing the date for the party, and warning Cecilia not to forget to send a card to a very dull girl, who was her goddaughter, and must be invited, she had not as yet thought much about the engagement. She now nerved herself to ask her niece how many people were expected on the fatal night. The answer almost brought on one of her spasms. She was obliged to drink a little hartshorn and water, thoughtfully pressed into her hand by Cecilia, before she could recover herself sufficiently to protest. She sat, alternately sipping the hartshorn and sniffing her vinaigrette, and moaning that she shuddered to think what Charles would say. It took Sophy twenty minutes to convince her that since he was not to be asked to defray the expenses of the entertainment, it was no concern of his, and even then Lady Ombersley dreaded the inevitable moment of discovery and could scarcely see him walk into the room without giving a nervous start.

Fortunately for the success of the expedition, the truth had not dawned upon Charles when the Ombersley party set out to visit the Marquesa de Villancanas at Merton. omens seemed to be propitious. The Marquesa had written a very pretty letter to Lady Ombersley, expressing her pleasure in the proposed meeting and begging her bring with her many of her interesting children as would care to come; the sun shone, and the day was warm, with no threat of showers; and Miss Wraxton, who had returned to the metropolis in time to share in the treat, was in her most amiable humor, not even excluding Sophy from her good graces.

At the last moment, Hubert suddenly announced his intention accompanying the party, saying the he too wanted to see giraffe. Sophy frowned him down, and as his mother had not caught what he said, but at once began to express delight in having his company, the awkward moment passed unnoticed. Mr. Rivenhall, having greeted Sir Vincent Talgarth with perfect civility, was standing exchanging conversation with him while the three ladies who were to drive in the landaulet arranged themselves in it, Miss Wraxton begging to be allowed to take the back seat, and Cecilia insisting that she should not. Everything seemed to be in train for a day of enjoyment when Mr. Fawnhope came round the corner of the Square, saw the cavalcade, and at once crossed the road toward it.

Mr. Rivenhall’s face hardened; he shot an accusing look at Sophy, but she shook her head. Mr. Fawnhope, shaking hands with Lady Ombersley, asked whither she was bound. She told him, Merton, and he said elliptically, “Statutes. Nolumus leges Angliae mutare.”

“Very likely,” said Lady Ombersley almost tartly. Miss Wraxton, who could never resist the temptation to display her superior education, smiled quite kindly at Mr. Fawnhope, and said, “Very true. King John, you know, is said to have slept at the priory the night before he signed the Great Charter. It is a very historic spot, for we are told that it was the scene of the murder of Cenulph, King of Wessex. It has, of course, more recent historic associations,” she added, but repressively, for these more recent historic associations regrettably included a quite unmentionable female.

“Nelson!” said Mr. Fawnhope. “Romantic Merton! I will go with you.” He then climbed into the carriage and took his place beside Cecilia, smiling seraphically at Lady Ombersley, and saying, “Now I know what it is I wish to do. I had no notion when I got up this morning but was filled with a vast discontent. I will go to Merton.”

“You cannot wish to go to Merton!” said Lady Ombersley, very much put out, and hoping that Charles would not put her to the blush by saying something cutting to this tiresome young man.

“Yes,” said Mr. Fawnhope. “There will be verdure, and that, I think, is what my soul craves. I, with my fair Cecilia, to Merton now will go, Where softly flows the Wandle, and daffodils that blow — What an ugly word is Wandle! How displeasing to the ear! Why do you frown at me? May I not go with you?”

This sudden change from rapt poet into cajoling boy threw Lady Ombersley off her balance, and she replied in a mollified voice, “I am sure we should be pleased to take you, Augustus, but we are going to visit the Marquesa de Villacañas, and she will not be expecting you.”

“Now there,” said Mr. Fawnhope, “is a beautiful name! Villacañas! It is most rich! A Spanish lady, with ‘garments gay and rich as maybe, Decked with jewels had she on!’”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Lady Ombersley crossly. Sophy, much amused by Mr. Fawnhope’s utter imperviousness to hints that he was not wanted, said laughingly, “Yes, pearls worth a king’s ransom. She even loves an English man, my father!”

“How splendid!” said Mr. Fawnhope. “I am so glad I came!”

Short of ordering him point-blank to get out of the carriage, there seemed to be no way of getting rid of him. Lady Ombersley cast her eldest son a despairing glance and Cecilia an imploring one; and Miss Wraxton smiled in a reassuring way that was designed to show him how perfect was her comprehension and how firm her resolve to keep an eye on Cecilia.

“Who is this Adonis?” Sir Vincent asked Mr. Rivenhall. “He and your sister, seated side by side, quite take one’s breath away!”

“Augustus Fawnhope,” replied Mr. Rivenhall curtly. “Cousin, if you are ready, I will hand you up!”

Lady Ombersley, gathering that she had received a tacit consent to Mr. Fawnhope’s presence, told her coachman to start, Sir Vincent and Hubert fell in behind the carriage, and Mr. Rivenhall said to Sophy, “If this is your doing — !”

“I promise you it is not. If I thought that he had the smallest notion of your hostility, I should say that he had rolled you up, Charles, foot and guns!”

He was obliged to laugh. “I doubt if he would have the smallest notion of anything less violent than a blow from a cudgel. How you can tolerate the fellow!”

“I told you that I was not at all nice in my ideas. Come, don’t let us talk of him! I have sworn an oath to heaven not to quarrel with you today.”

“You amaze me! Why?”

“Don’t be such an ape!” she begged. “I want to drive your grays, of course!”

He took his place beside her in the curricle and nodded to the groom to stand away from the grays’ heads. “Oh, that! When we are clear of the town, you shall do so.”

“That,” said Sophy, “is a remark calculated, I daresay, to make me lose my temper at the outset. I shall not do it, however.”

“I don’t doubt your skill,” he said.

“A handsome admission. It cost you an effort to make it, perhaps, and that makes it the more valuable. But the roads are so good in England that not much skill is required. You should see some of the tracks in Spain!”