"Oh, don't say so, Mr. Ropsley," observes Constance, with an anxious look. "I trust we shall never see anything so horrid again."
Miss Minim remarks that "occasional wars are beneficial, nay, necessary for the welfare of the human race," illustrating her position by the familiar metaphor of thunderstorms, etc.; but Ropsley, who has quite the upper hand of Miss Minim, breaks in upon her ruthlessly, as he observes, "The funds gone down a fraction, Sir Harry, I see. I think one ought to sell. By-the-bye, I've a capital letter from De Rohan, at Paris. You would like to hear what he is about, Miss Beverley, I am sure."
Constance winced and coloured. It was Ropsley's game to assert a sort of matter-of-course tendresse on her part for my Hungarian friend, which he insisted on so gradually, but yet so successfully, as to give him the power of making her uneasy at the mention of "De Rohan's" name. He wished to establish an influence over her, and this was the only manner in which he could do so; but Ropsley was a man who only asked to insert the point of the wedge, he could trust himself to do the rest. Yet, with all his knowledge of human nature, he made this one great mistake, he judged of women by the other half of mankind; so he looked pointedly at Constance as he added, "I'll read you what he says, or, perhaps, Miss Beverley, you would like to see his letter?"
He had now driven her a little too far, and she turned round upon him.
"Really, Mr. Ropsley, I don't wish to interfere with your correspondence. I hate to read other people's letters; and Count de Rohan has become such a stranger now that I have almost forgotten him."
She was angry with herself immediately she had spoken. It seemed so like the remark of a person who was piqued. Ropsley would be more than ever convinced now that she cared for him. Sir Harry, too, looked up from his plate, apparently at his daughter's unusual vehemence. The girl bit her lips, and wished she had held her tongue. Ropsley saw he had marked up another point in the game.
"Very true," said he, with his quiet, well-bred smile: "old playfellows and old school-days cannot be expected to last all one's life. However, Victor does not forget us. He seems to be very gay, though, and rather dissipated, at Paris; knows all the world and goes everywhere; ran a horse last week at Chantilly. You know Chantilly, Sir Harry."
The Baronet's face brightened. He had won a cup, given by Louis Philippe, from all the foreigners there on one occasion, and he liked to be reminded of it.
"Know it," said he, "I should think I do. Why, I trained Flibbertigibbet in the park here myself--I and the old coachman. We never sent him to my own trainer at Newmarket, but took him over ourselves, and beat them all. That was the cup you saw in the centre of the dinner-table yesterday. The two-year-old we tried at Lansdowne was his grandson. Ah! Ropsley, I wish I had taken your advice about him."
Ropsley was, step by step, obtaining great influence over Sir Harry. He returned to the subject of old friendships.