To listen to a poet arguing with himself — for she could scarcely have been said to have borne any part in the discussion — on the merits of blank verse as a dramatic medium was naturally a privilege of which any young lady must be proud, but there could be no denying that talk for half an hour to a man who listened with interest to anything she said was, if not precisely a relief, certainly a welcome variation in her life. Not for nothing had his lordship endured the world for ten more years than his youthful rival. Mr. Fawnhope’s handsome face, and engaging smile might dazzle the female eye, but Mr. Fawnhope had not yet learned the art of conveying to a lady the gratifying impression that he considered her a fragile creature, to be cherished and in every way considered. Lord Charlbury might be constitutionally incapable of addressing her as Nymph, or of comparing bluebells unfavorably with her eyes, but Lord Charlbury would infallibly provide a cloak for her if the weather were inclement, lift her over obstacles she could well climb without assistance, and in every way convince her that in his eyes she was a precious being whom it was impossible to guard too carefully.

It would have been too much to have said that Cecilia was regretting her rejection of his lordship’s suit, but when Sophy and Charles joined her she was certainly conscious of a faint feeling of dissatisfaction at having her tête-à-tête interrupted.

She tried to discuss the matter in a dispassionate way with Sophy, later, but found it curiously hard to utter any of the sentiments she had persuaded herself she felt. Finally, she bent her head over a piece of embroidery, and asked her cousin whether Lord Charlbury had yet offered for her.

Sophy laughed at this. “Good God, no, you goose! Charlbury has no serious intentions toward me.”

Cecilia kept her eyes lowered. “Indeed? I should have said that he showed the most decided partiality for you.”

“My dear Cecy, I would not tease you by adverting to this subject, but I am persuaded that what Charlbury wears on his sleeve is not his heart. I should not wonder at it if he were to end his days a bachelor.”

“I do not think it,” said Cecilia, snipping her silk. “And nor, I fancy, do you, Sophy. He will offer for you, and — and I hope you will accept him, because if one were not in love with another I cannot imagine any gentleman one would prefer to him.”

“Well, we shall see,” was ah Sophy would say.

Chapter 14

THE NOTION of writing a tragedy having taken possession of Mr. Fawnhope’s mind, he appeared to remove from it any immediate plan for seeking remunerative employment. On several occasions he arrived in Berkeley Square quite impervious to Mr. Rivenhall’s brutal snubs, carrying his pocket the latest installment of his play, which he read to Cecilia and to Sophy, and once even to Lady Ombersley who complained afterward that she had not understood a word of it. He seemed to spend a good many afternoons at Merton as well, but when Sophy questioned him about Sancia’s other guests he could never remember with any clarity who had been present. But Sir Vincent, when he came to call in Berkeley Square, made no secret of the fact that he was very often at Merton. Sophy, a blunt creature, told him roundly that she mistrusted him and would thank him to remember that Sancia was betrothed to Sir Horace.

Sir Vincent laughed gently, and pinched her chin, holding it an instant too long and tilting up her face. “Will you, Sophy?” he said, quizzing her. “But when I offered to run in your harness you would have none of me! Be reasonable, Juno! If you reject me, you cannot expect me to respond docilely to your hand on my rein!”

She put up her hand to grasp his wrist. “Sir Vincent, you shall not serve Sir Horace a backhanded turn!” she said.

“Why not?” he asked coolly. “Do you think he would not do the same to me? You are such a splendid innocent, adorable Juno!”

Since Mr. Rivenhall chose this inauspicious moment to come into the drawing room, Sophy was unable to say more. Without embarrassment, Sir Vincent released her and moved forward to greet his host. His reception was frosty; he was given no encouragement to prolong his visit; and no sooner had he taken leave and departed than Mr. Rivenhall gave his cousin, without reserve, the benefit of his opinion of her behavior in encouraging a notorious rake to practice familiarities with her.

Sophy listened to him with an air of great interest, but if he had hoped to abash her he was disappointed, for all she said in reply was, “I think your scolds are capital, Charles, for you are never at a loss for a word! But would you call me an incorrigible flirt?”

“Yes, I would! You encourage every scarlet coat you have ever met to haunt the house! You set the town talking with your shameless conduct in keeping Charlbury dangling after you, and not content with that, you allow a fellow like Talgarth to behave to you as though you had been an inn servant!”

She opened her eyes at him. “Charles! Is that what you do? Pinch their chins? Well, I was never more astonished! I don’t think you should!”

“Don’t try my temper too far, Sophy!” he said dangerously. “If you knew how my hands itch to box your ears, you would take care!”

“Oh, I am sure you never would!” she said, smiling. “You know Sir Horace did not teach me how to box and how unfair it would be! Besides, why should you care a button what I do? I am not one of your sisters!”

“Thank God for it!”

“Yes, indeed, for you are the horridest brother, you know! Do stop making a cake of yourself! Sir Vincent is a sad case, but he would never do me any harm, I assure you. That would be quite against his code, for he knew me when I ‘ was a little girl, and he is a friend of Sir Horace’s. I must say, he is the oddest creature! Sancia, it is perfectly plain, he does not hold to be in the least sacred.” Her brow creased. “I am much afraid of what he may do in that direction. I wonder if I ought to say I will marry him after all?”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Rivenhall. “Marry that fellow? Not while you are under this roof!”

“Yes, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps I owe it to Sir Horace,” she explained. “I own, it would be a sacrifice, but I am sure he trusts me to take care of Sancia while he is away, and I don’t at all perceive how I am to prevent Vincent from stealing her affections, unless I marry him self. He has so much address, you know!”

“You appear to me,” said Mr. Rivenhall scathingly, have taken leave of your senses! You will scarcely expect to believe that you would entertain the thought of m with that man!”

“But, Charles, I find you most unreasonable!” she pointed out. “Not a week ago you said that the sooner I was ma: and out of this house the better pleased you would but when I said perhaps I might marry Charlbury you flew into a passion, and now you will not hear of poor Sir Vincent; either!”

Mr. Rivenhall made no attempt to answer this. He merely cast a darkling glance at his cousin, and said, “Only one thing could surprise me, and that would be to learn that Talgarth had offered for you!”

“Well, you must be surprised,” said Sophy placidly, “because he has done so a score of times. It is become a habit with him, I think. But I know what you mean, and you are right; he would be very much disconcerted if I took him at his word. I might, of course, become engaged to him, and cry off when Sir Horace returns, but it seems rather a shabby thing to do, don’t you think?”

“Extremely so!”

She sighed. “Yes, and he is so clever that I daresay he would guess what I was about. I might, I suppose, remove to Merton, and that would certainly make it awkward for Sir Vincent. But Sancia would not like that at all, I fear.”

“She has my sympathy!”

Sophy looked at him. Under his amazed and horrified gaze, large tears slowly welled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. She did not sniff, or gulp, or even sob; merely she allowed her tears to gather and fall.

“Sophy!” ejaculated Mr. Rivenhall, visibly shaken. He took an involuntary step toward her, checked himself, and said rather disjointedly, “Pray do not! I did not mean — I had no intention — You know how it is with me! I say more than I mean, when — Sophy, for God’s sake do not cry!”

“Oh, do not stop me!” begged Sophy. “Sir Horace says it is my only accomplishment!”

Mr. Rivenhall glared at her. “What?”

“Very few persons are able to do it,” Sophy assured him. “I discovered it by the veriest accident when I was only ten years old. Sir Horace said I should cultivate it, for I should find it most useful.”

‘You — you — ” Words failed Mr. Rivenhall. “Stop at once!”

“Oh, I have stopped!” said Sophy, carefully wiping the drops away. “I cannot continue if I don’t keep sad thoughts in my mind, such as you saying unkind things to me, or — ”

“I do not believe you felt the slightest inclination to cry!” declared Mr. Rivenhall roundly. “You did it only to set me at a disadvantage! You are, without exception, the most abominable, shameless — Don’t start again!”

She laughed. “Very well, but if I am so horrid, perhaps it would be better for me to go to stay with Sancia.”

“Understand this!” said Mr. Rivenhall. “My uncle left you expressly to my mother’s care, and in this house you will remain until such time as he returns to England! As for these nonsensical notions about the Marquesa, you are not to be held responsible for anything she may choose to do!”

“Where the well-being of the persons to whom one is attached is concerned, one cannot say that one is not responsible,” said Sophy simply. “One should make a push to be of service. Yet I do not perceive what I should do in this event. I wish it had been possible for Sancia to have stayed in Sir Horace’s own house!”