“Oh, pray believe it’s no such thing!” cried Lady Ombersley, distressed. “I did not wish you to think — to give you cause to suppose that Charles is ever disagreeable, for indeed he is not, except when he is put out of temper, and one must own that he has a great deal to try his patience! Which is why I can’t but feel, dear Horace, that if he does not like me to take charge of Sophia for you, I ought not to tease him!”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Sir Horace. “And why shouldn’t he like it?”
“We — we had decided not to give any parties this season, beyond what must be thought necessary. It is a most unfortunate circumstance that Charles’s wedding has had to be postponed, on account of a bereavement Miss Wraxton has suffered. One of Lady Brinklow’s sisters, and they will not be out of black gloves for six months. You must know that the Brinklows are very particular in all matters of correct conduct. Eugenia goes only to very quiet parties, and — and naturally one must expect Charles to partake of her sentiments!”
“Lord, Elizabeth, a man don’t have to wear black gloves for the aunt of a female he ain’t even married to!”
“Of course not, but Charles seemed to feel — and then there is Charlbury!”
“What the devil ails him?”
“Mumps,” replied Lady Ombersley tragically.
“Eh?” Sir Horace burst out laughing. “Well, what a fellow he must be to have the mumps when he should be getting married to Cecilia!”
“Really, Horace, I must say that I think that most unjust of you, for how could he help it? It is so mortifying for him! And, what is more, excessively unfortunate, because I don’t doubt that had he been able to attach Cecilia, which I am sure he must have done, for nothing could be more amiable than his disposition, while his manners and address are just what they ought to be! But girls are so foolish, and take romantical notions into their heads, besides all kinds of encroaching fancies. However, I am happy to think that Cecilia is not one of these dreadful modern misses, and of course she will be guided by her parents! But no one can deny that nothing could be more ill timed than Charlbury’s mumps!”
Sir Horace, once more opening his snuffbox, regarded her with an amused and sapient eye. “And what is Miss Cecilia’s particular encroaching fancy?” he enquired.