“You mean you told him so,” said Pen bitterly.
“Yes, I did. At least, he asked me, and I said yes before I had had time to think.”
“Really, you are the most brainless creature! Do you never think?” said Pen, quite exasperated. “Just look what a coil you’ve created! Either your Papa is coming to ask me what my intentions are, or—which I think a great deal more likely—to complain to Richard about my conduct! Oh dear, whatever will Richard say to this fresh disturbance?”
It was plain that all this meant nothing to Miss Daubenay. For form’s sake, she repeated that she was very sorry, but added: “I hoped you would be able to help me. But you are a boy! You don’t understand what it means to be persecuted as I am!”
This remark could not but strike a chord of sympathy. “As a matter of fact, I do know,” said Pen. “Only, if helping you means offering for your hand, I won’t do it. The more I think of it, the more ridiculous it seems to me that you should have dragged me into it. How could such an absurd tale possibly be of use?”
Lydia sighed. “One does not think of those things in the heat of the moment. Besides, I didn’t really mean to drag you in. It—it just happened.”
“I don’t see how it could have happened if you didn’t mean it.”
“One thing led to another,” Lydia explained vaguely. “Almost before I knew it, the whole story had—had grown up. Of course I don’t wish you to offer for my hand, but I do think you might pretend you want to, so that Papa shan’t suspect me of telling lies.”
“No!” said Pen.
“I think you are very unkind,” whimpered Lydia. “I shall be sent back to Bath, and Great-Aunt Augusta will spy on me, and I shall never see Piers again!”