"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling.
"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard her.
"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you now, my dear? Seventeen?"
"Nineteen, Madam."
"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You don't bridle so well as you might, either.[[1]] Really, you use not all your advantages."
"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"—
"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you."
Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not displeased.
Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. A prayer followed—long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father.
"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!"