“My dear Charles, he knows that what concerns your family must be also my concern!”

“I am much obliged to you, but I have no wish to discuss the matter.”

“Excuse me! I must go to my mother!” Cecilia said. She escaped from the room; Miss Wraxton looked significantly at Mr. Rivenhall, and said, “I do not wonder you are vexed. It has been a sadly mismanaged business, and I fancy we have not far to seek for the influence that prompted dear Cecilia to behave in a way so unlike herself!”

“I have not the smallest conjecture as to your meaning.”

His tone, which was forbidding, warned her that she would be wise to turn the subject, but her dislike of Sophy had become such an obsession with her that she was impelled to continue.

“You must have noticed, dear Charles, that our sweet sister has fallen quite under the sway of her cousin. I cannot think it will lead to anything but disaster. Miss Stanton-Lacy doubtless has many excellent qualities, but I have always thought that you were right in saying she had too little delicacy of mind.”

Mr. Rivenhall, who had decided that Sophy was to blame for his sister’s conduct, said without an instant’s hesitation, “You are mistaken. I never made any such remark!”

“Did you not? Something of that nature I think you once said to me, but it hardly signifies! It is a thousand pities that dear Lady Ombersley was forced to receive her as a guest at this precise time. Every time I enter the house I am conscious of a change in it! Even the children — ”

“It is certainly by far more lively,” he interrupted.

She gave vent to rather an artificial laugh. “It is certainly less peaceful!” She began to smooth the wrinkles from her gloves. “Do you know, Charles, I have always so much admired the tone of this house? Your doing, I know well! I cannot but feel a little melancholy when I see that ordered calm — a certain dignity, I should say — shattered by wild spirits. Poor little Amabel, I thought the other day, is growing quite out of hand. Of course, Miss Stanton-Lacy encourages her unthinkingly. One must remember that she herself has had a strangely irregular upbringing!”

“My cousin,” said Mr. Rivenhall, with finality, “has been extremely kind to the children, and is a great favorite with my mother. I must add that it is a pleasure to me to see my mother’s spirits so much improved by Sophy’s presence. Have you any errands in this part of town? May I escort you? I must be in Bond Street in twenty minutes’ time.”

In face of so comprehensive a snub as this it was impossible for Miss Wraxton to say more. Her color rose, and her lips tightened, but she managed to suppress an acid retort, and to say with the appearance at least of complaisance, “Thank you, I have to call at the library for Mama. I came in the barouche and shall be glad to take you up as far as to your destination.”

Since this was Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, she could hardly have been expected to have been pleased, for she did not care for sport of any kind and considered boxing a peculiarly low form of it. But apart from quizzing Mr. Rivenhall archly on his obvious preference for a horrid prizefighter’s society rather than for her own, she made no comment.

Cecilia, meanwhile, had fled, not to Lady Ombersley but to her cousin, whom she discovered seated before her dressing table, scanning a slip of paper. Jane Storridge was putting away her habit, but when Cecilia came into the room she seemed to feel that she was not wanted, for she gave an audible sniff, picked up Sophy’s riding boots, and went away with them under her arm.

“What do you suppose this can be, Cecy?” asked Sophy, still studying with knit brows the paper in her hand. “Jane says she found it by the window and thought it must be mine. What a funny name! Goldhanger, Bear Alley, Fleet Lane. I do not know the writing, and cannot conceive how — Oh, how stupid! it must have fallen out of the pocket of Hubert’s coat!”

“Sophy!” said Cecilia, “I have had the most dreadful interview with Charlbury!”

Sophy laid the paper down. “Good gracious, how is this?”

“I find my spirits utterly overborne!” declared Cecilia, sinking into a chair. “No one — no one! — could have behaved with more exquisite sensibility! I wish you had not persuaded me to see him! Nothing could have been more painful!”

“Oh, do not give him a thought!” said Sophy bracingly. “Let us rather think what is to be done about fixing Augustus in some genteel occupation!”

“How can you be so heartless?” demanded Cecilia. “When he was so kind, and I could not but see how much I had grieved him!”

“I daresay he will recover speedily enough,” Sophy replied, in a careless way. “Ten to one he will fall in love with another female before the month is out!”

Cecilia did not look as though she found this prophecy consoling, but after a moment she said, “I am sure I wish he may, for to be ruining a man’s life is no very pleasant thing, I can tell you!”

“Do you think it will rain? Dare I wear my new straw hat? I have a mind to flirt with Charlbury myself. I liked him.”

“I wish you may succeed,” said Cecilia, a trifle stiffly. “I do not think him a man at all given to flirting, however. The tone of his mind is too nice for such a pastime as that!”

Sophy laughed. “We’ll see! Do tell me which hat I should wear! The straw is so ravishing, but if it were to come on to mizzle — ”

“I don’t care which hat you wear!” snapped Cecilia.

Chapter 11

THE REST of the day passed uneventfully, Sophy driving Cecilia in Hyde Park in her phaeton, setting her down to enjoy a stroll with Mr. Fawnhope, encountered by previous arrangement by the Riding House, and taking up In her stead Sir Vincent Talgarth, who only deserted her when he perceived the Marquesa de Villacanas’s barouche drawn up beside the rails that separated Rotten Row from the carriage way. The Marquesa, who was attracting no little attention by the number and height of the curled ostrich plumes in her hat, welcomed him with her lazy smile, and told Sophy that she found the shops in London wholly inferior to those in Paris. Nothing she had seen in Bond Street that day had tempted her to undo her purse string. But Sir Vincent knew of a modiste in Bruton Street who might be trusted to recognize at a glance the style and quality of such a customer, and he offered to escort the Marquesa to her establishment.

Sophy knit her brows a little over this, but before she had had time to think much on the subject her attention was claimed by Lord Bromford. Civility obliged her to invite him to take a turn about the Park in her phaeton. He got up beside her, and after telling her how much enjoyment he had derived from the Ombersley ball, made her a formal offer of marriage. Sophy declined this, without hesitation and without embarrassment. Lord Bromford, disconcerted only for a minute, said that his ardor had made him too precipitate, but that he did not despair of a happy issue. “When your parent returns to these shores,” he pronounced, “I shall formally apply to him for leave to address you. You are very right to insist upon so much propriety, and I must beg pardon for having contravened the laws of etiquette. Only the strong passion under which I labor — and I must tell you that not the most forceful representations of my mother, a Being to whom I, in filial duty, tender the most profound respect, have had the power to alter my decision — only, as I have said, this passion could have induced me to forget — ”

“I think,” said Sophy, “that you should take your seat in the House of Lords. Have you done so?”

“It is strange,” responded his lordship, swelling slightly, “that you should ask me that question, for I am upon the point of doing so. I shall be presented by a sponsor no less distinguished for his high lineage than for his forensic attainments,’ and I trust — ”

“I have no doubt at all that you are destined to become a great man,” said Sophy. “No matter how lengthy, or how involved your periods, you never lose yourself in them! How charming the foliage is on those beech trees! Do you know any tree to rival the beech? I am sure I do not!”

“Certainly a graceful tree,” conceded Lord Bromford, patronizing the beech. “Hardly, however, to rank in majesty with the mahogany, which grows in the West Indies, or in usefulness with the lancewood. I wonder, Miss Stanton-Lacy, how many persons are aware that the lancewood supplies the shafts for their carriages?”

“In the southern provinces of Spain,” countered Sophy, “the cork oak grows in great profusion.”

“Another interesting tree to be found in Jamaica,” said his lordship, “is the ballata. We have also the rosewood, the ebony, the lignum vitae — ”

“The northern parts of Spain,” said Sophy defiantly, “are more remarkable for the many variety of shrubs which grow there, including what we call the jarales, and the ladanum bush, and — and — Oh, there is Lord Francis! I shall have to put you down, Lord Bromford!”

He was reluctant, but since Lord Francis was waving to Sophy, and showed every desire to speak to her, he was unable to demur. When the phaeton drew up, he climbed ponderously down from it, and Lord Francis leaped equally nimbly up into it, saying, “Sophy, that was a capital ball last night! What a lovely creature your cousin is, to be sure!”

Sophy set her horses in motion again. “Francis, does the cork oak grow in the southern provinces in Spain?”

“Lord, Sophy, how should I know? You was in Cadiz! Can’t you recall? Who cares for cork oaks, in any event?”

“I hope,” said Sophy warmly, “that when you have done with being the worst flirt in Europe, Francis, you will win a very beautiful wife, for you deserve one! Do you know anything about the ballata?”