“Here are some vows of everlasting friendship going forward, I 'll be sworn,” said old Repton, stepping in between them; “and you ought to have a legal opinion as to the clauses,—eh, young ladies, am I not right?”
“When was Mr. Repton wrong?” said Mary, laughing.
“When he waited till his present age to fall in love!” said he, gayly. “But, seriously, what have you done with our young student? Of all the woe-begone faces I ever beheld, his was the very saddest, as he moved into the large drawing-room awhile ago. Which of you is to blame for this?”
“Not guilty, upon my honor,” said Mary, with mock solemnity.
“I'm half afraid that our showy friend has eclipsed him in your eyes, as I own to you he has in mine, clever fellow that he is.”
“Are you not charmed with yourself that you did not shoot him this morning?” said Mary, laughing.
“I am sincerely gratified that he has not shot me, which, taking his pistol performance on the same level with his other acquirements, was not so very improbable!”
“There's your uncle stealing away to bed,” said Repton, “and fancying that nobody remarks him. Shall I be cruel enough to mar the project? Martin—Martin—come here for a moment; we want your opinion on a knotty point.”
“I know what it is,” said Martin, smiling; “the question under discussion is, “whether you or Mr. Massingbred were the more successful to-day? ”
“I think Mr. Massingbred may claim the prize,” said Mary Martin, with a sly whisper; “he made Lady Dorothea cry.”