So Dobson went off, and has not yet returned. My Aunt Dorothea laughs all to scorn, but my Uncle Charles is uneasy, and I am sure Grandmamma believes the report. It is dreadful if it is true. Are we to sit down under another thirty years of foreign oppression?
Before Dobson could get back, Mrs Newton came in her chair. She is a very stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up the stairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little Dutch pug after, which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. Her two daughters came in behind her.
“Oh, my dear—Mrs Desborough! My—dear creature! This is—the horridest news! We must—go back to our—red ribbons and—black cockades! Could I ever have—thought it! Aren’t you—perfectly miserable? Dear, dear me!”
“Ma is miserable because red does not suit her,” said Miss Marianne. “I can wear it quite well, so I don’t need to be.”
“Marianne!” said her sister, laughing.
“Well, you know, Theresa, you don’t care two pins whether the Prince wins or loses. Who does?”
“The Prince and my Lord Tullibardine,” said Miss Newton.
“Oh, of course, those who looked to the Prince to make their fortunes are disappointed enough. I don’t.”
“I rather thought Mr Crossland did,” said Miss Newton, with a mischievous air.