“You behold me—er—stricken with remorse,” said Sir Richard.
The magistrate snorted, jerked a bow, and took himself off.
“My reputation! oh, my reputation!” mourned Sir Richard. “Horrible and unprincipled brat, why the owl?”
“Well, I had to say something!” Pen pointed out.
“I am afraid,” said Piers, conscience-stricken, “that it is a little Lydia’s fault. But indeed, sir, she meant no harm!”
“I know,” said Sir Richard. “She is so impulsive! I feel a hundred years old.”
He went out on the words, and Pen at once rounded on Mr Luttrell, saying in accusing accents: “There! You see now what your precious Lydia has done!”
“She is no worse than you are! In fact, not as bad!” retorted Piers. “She would not masquerade about the country as a boy! I do not wonder at Sir Richard’s feeling a hundred years old. If I were betrothed to you, I should feel the same!”
Miss Creed’s eyes flashed. “Well, I will tell you something, Piers Luttrell! I have got a cousin with a face like a fish, and he wants to marry me, which is why I escaped out a window. But —do you hear me?—I would a great deal rather marry him than you. If I had to marry you, I would drown myself! You are stupid, and rude, and spiritless!”
“Merely because I have a little common sense,” began Piers, very stiff, and rather flushed.