'There, that will do,' said Eugenia, picking it up. 'You've made your little scene, and shown your little temper, and that's enough. Sit down,' she commanded.
Cecil sat down, feeling a complete fool.
'Look here. I daresay that it's a little annoying for you, at first, especially as you introduced us; but really, when you come to think it over, there's no law of etiquette, or any other that I know of, which compels me to refuse the uncle of a young man who has done me the honour to like me. Oh, Cecil, don't be absurd!'
'Are you in love with him?'
'No. But I think he will be very pleasant—not worrying and fidgeting—so calm and kind. I refused at first, Cecil. People always want what they can't get, and if it's any satisfaction to you, I don't mind confessing that I have had, for years, a perfect mania for somebody else. A hopeless case for at least three reasons: he's married, he's in love with someone else (not even counting his wife, who counts a great deal) and, if he hadn't either of these preoccupations, he would never look at me. So I've given it up. I've made up my mind to forget it. Your uncle will help me, and give me something else to think about.'
'Who was the man?' Cecil asked. It was some slight satisfaction to know that she also had had a wasted affection.
'Why should I tell you? I shall not tell you. Well, I will tell you.
It's Sir Charles Cannon.'
'Old Cannon?'
'Yes; it was a sort of mad hero-worship. I never could account for it. I always thought him the most wonderful person. He hasn't the faintest idea of it, and never will; and now don't let's speak of him again.'
The name reminded Cecil of Hyacinth. He started violently, remembering his appointment. What must she have thought of him?