“You can pass over her name.”
“No, I can’t,” contradicted Rupert. “I can’t go on calling her girl, filly, chit, yaller-head; it throws me out.”
“Just as you please,” yawned Vidal. “You’ll forget it in five minutes. Sophia.”
“That’s it,” nodded my lord. “Never could stand the name since I got entangled with a widow called Sophia. D’you know, boy, that woman well-nigh married me?”
“That wasn’t Sophia,” objected Vidal. “That was Maria Hiscock.”
“No, no, that’s a different one,” said Rupert impatiently. “Sophia was years before your time. And she devilish nearly had me. You be warned, Dominic.”
“You are kindness itself,” answered Vidal politely, “I can only repeat what I seem to have said already several times; I do not at this present contemplate marriage.”
“But ain’t this Sophia a thought different from the others?” asked his lordship curiously. “Daughter of a cit? Lay you odds you stir up trouble there.”
“Not I. If it were the sister now — !” Vidal gave a short laugh. “That’s one of those enemies of mine you spoke of, or I’m much mistaken.”
“Didn’t see the sister, did I? The mother will do what she can to see you tied up in wedlock. ’Pon my soul, if I ever set eyes on a worse harpy!”