‘How now?’ said Charles. ‘The old lady wanting you to make her will?’
‘No,’ said Lucilla, with dignity. ‘My brother’s wife is very ill. I must go to her.’
‘Is she demented?’ asked Charles, looking at his sister.
‘Raving,’ was the answer. ‘She has been so the whole morning. I shall cut off her hair, and get ice for her head.’
‘I tell simple truth,’ returned Cilla. ‘Here is a letter from Honor Charlecote, solving the two mysteries of last summer. Owen’s companion, who Rashe would have it was Jack Hastings—’
‘Ha! married, then! The cool hand! And verily, but that Cilly takes it so easily, I should imagine it was her singing prodigy—eh? It was, then?’
‘Absurd idiot!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘There, he is done for now!’
‘Yes,’ drawled Eloïsa; ‘one never could notice a low person like that.’
‘She is my sister, remember!’ cried Lucilla, with stamping foot and flashing eye.
‘Cunning rogue!’ continued Horatia. ‘How did he manage to give no suspicion? Oh! what fun! No wonder she looked green and yellow when he was flirting with the little Fulmort! Let’s hear all, Cilly—how, when, and where?’