‘As he thinks?’
‘How do I know what he thinks?’
Heartsick at such mere fencing, Honor was silent at first, then said, ‘I, for one, shall rate your good opinion by your endeavour to deserve it. Who can suppose that you value what you are willing to risk for an unladylike bet, or an unfeminine sporting expedition!’
‘You may tell him so,’ said Lucilla, her voice quivering with passion.
‘You think a look will bring him back, but you may find that a true man is no slave. Prove his affection misplaced, and he will tear it away.’
Had Honora been discreet as she was good, she would have left those words to settle down; but, woman that she was, she knew not when to stop, and coaxingly coming to the small bundle of perverseness, she touched the shoulder, and said, ‘Now you won’t make an object of yourself to-night?’
The shoulder shook in the old fashion.
‘At least you will not go to Ireland.’
‘Yes, I shall.’
‘Miss Charlecote, I beg your pardon—’ cried Rashe, bursting in—(oh! that she had been five seconds earlier)—‘but dressing is imperative. People are beginning to come.’