He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to gay conciliatory, tone: for the first time he becomes aware of my unusual silence.
"Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a drive as a tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I cannot resist this one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton,"—to Chips, who has just entered—"come and sit here by me: there is no more room."
For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advantage as I watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. Her mouth changes its expression. It is no longer complacent. At this moment I feel she hates me with a bitter hatred, and am partly comforted.
A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache; it is scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes discreetly on his plate.
"How shall we go?" asks 'Duke. "We have the coach, and your trap, Ashurst, and the open carriage: will that be enough? Harriet, what will suit you?"
"I shall stay at home, thank you," says Harriet, smiling. "I know I am letting myself down in your estimation horribly, but I confess I detest long drives. I believe I detest anything lengthened. I am naturally fickle." (She is the most sincere creature alive.) "I shall enjoy lounging about at home, looking at the flowers, and reading, and that."
"Indeed, Harriet, you shall not," cry I, impetuously. "We would all be miserable without you."
"That's a fact, Lady Handcock," puts in Chips, heartily.
"Chippendale, you almost make me relent," says Harriet, smiling. "But"—in a piteous aside to me—"do not compel me to go. It is twelve miles there, and twelve miles back, if it is a yard; just think of that. My poor back would not stand it. James shall go and represent me."
"Why not change the place, and name a spot nearer home?" says Dora, quietly. Dora always does the correct thing.