“I imagine you have everything to say to it,” he retorted. “Don’t play off the airs of an innocent to me, Cousin! I know you well enough to be tolerably certain that you rule my uncle with a rod of iron and have probably guarded him from dozens of marquesas in your time!”
She laughed. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But, then, they would none of them have made the poor angel at all comfortable, and I do think perhaps Sancia may. I have long made up my mind to it that he should marry again, you know.”
“Next you will say that this match is of your making!”
“Oh, no! There is never the least need to make matches for Sir Horace!” she said frankly. “He is the most susceptible creature imaginable, and, which is so dangerous, if a pretty woman will but weep on his shoulder he will do anything she wants!”
He did not reply, and she saw that his attention was fixed on Cecilia and Sir Vincent, who had that instant come round a corner of the clipped yew hedge. A slight frown descended on to his brow, which made Sophy say severely, “Now, don’t take one of your pets because Cecy flirts a little with Sir Vincent! You should be thankful to see her taking interest in some other man than Mr. Fawnhope. But there is no pleasing you!”
“I am certainly not pleased with that connection!”
“Oh, you have no cause to feel alarm! Sir Vincent is only interested in heiresses and has no intention of offering for Cecy.”
“Thank you, it is not on that score that I feel alarm,” he answered.
She could say no more, for by this time the other couple had come up to them. Cecilia, who was looking prettier than ever, described how Sir Vincent had been so obliging as to find a servant who gave him some maize for the pigeons. She had fed them, and her cousin thought she had taken far more delight in encouraging them to take maize from between her lips than in listening to Sir Vincent’s practiced compliments.
They were soon joined by Hubert. He shot Sophy a glance so pregnant with mischief that in spite of his high shirt points, his elaborate neckcloth, and his fashionable waistcoat he looked very much more like a schoolboy than the town beau he fancied himself. She could not imagine what mischief he could have found to perform in the little time since she had left him, but before she could speculate very seriously on this problem her attention was diverted by the Marquesa, who appeared at the drawing-room window and made signs indicative of her desire that they should all come into the house. Civility obliged even Mr. Rivenhall to obey the summons.