“Pardon me, Lady Honoria, you are greatly mistaken; they would give a thousand; such a thing, belonging to a man from his own ancestors, is invaluable.”
“Why, dear Sir, what in the world could they do with it? unless, indeed, they were to let some man paint it for an opera scene.”
“A worthy use indeed!” cried Mr Delvile, more and more affronted; “and pray does your ladyship talk thus to my Lord Duke?”
“O yes; and he never minds it at all.”
“It were strange if he did!” cried Mrs Delvile; “my only astonishment is that anybody can be found who does mind it.”
“Why now, Mrs Delvile,” she answered, “pray be sincere; can you possibly think this Gothic ugly old place at all comparable to any of the new villas about town?”
“Gothic ugly old place!” repeated Mr Delvile, in utter amazement at her dauntless flightiness; “your ladyship really does my humble dwelling too much honour!”
“Lord, I beg a thousand pardons!” cried she, “I really did not think of what I was saying. Come, dear Miss Beverley, and walk out with me, for I am too much shocked to stay a moment longer.”
And then, taking Cecilia by the arm, she hurried her into the park, through a door which led thither from the parlour.
“For heaven's sake, Lady Honoria,” said Cecilia, “could you find no better entertainment for Mr Delvile than ridiculing his own house?”