“Ah! that is quite a different business,” said Adriana, with a sigh.
Reginald Sutton was a professed admirer of Adriana, rode with her whenever he could, and danced with her immensely. She gave him cold encouragement, though he was the best-looking and best-dressed youth in England; but he was a determined young hero, not gifted with too sensitive nerves, and was a votary of the great theory that all in life was an affair of will, and that endowed with sufficient energy he might marry whom he liked. He accounted for his slow advance in London by the inimical presence of Mrs. Neuchatel, who he felt, or fancied, did not sympathise with him; while, on the contrary, he got on very well with the father, and so he was determined to seize the present opportunity. The mother was absent, and he himself in a commanding position, being one of the knights to whose exploits the eyes of all England were attracted.
Lord Roehampton was seated between an ambassadress and Berengaria, indulging in gentle and sweet-voiced raillery; the Count of Ferroll was standing beside Lady Montfort, and Mr. Wilton was opposite to the group. The Count of Ferroll rarely spoke, but listened to Lady Montfort with what she called one of his dark smiles.
“All I know is, she will never pardon you for not asking her,” said Lord Roehampton. “I saw Bicester the day I left town, and he was very grumpy. He said that Lady Bicester was the only person who understood tournaments. She had studied the subject.”
“I suppose she wanted to be the Queen of Beauty,” said Berengaria.
“You are too severe, my dear lady. I think she would have been contented with a knight wearing her colours.”
“Well, I cannot help it,” said Berengaria, but somewhat doubtingly. And then, after a moment’s pause, “She is too ugly.”
“Why, she came to my fancy ball, and it is not five years ago, as Mary Queen of Scots!”
“That must have been after the Queen’s decapitation,” said Berengaria.
“I wonder you did not ask Zenobia,” said Mr. Wilton.