Lady Ombersley knew that her eldest son would have counseled her to preserve a discreet silence; but the impulse to unburden herself to her brother was too strong to be denied. She said, “Well, you will not repeat it, I know, Horace, but the fact is that the silly child thinks she is in love with Augustus Fawnhope!”
“Would that be one of Lutterworth’s brood?” asked Sir Horace. “I don’t think much of that for a match, I must say!”
“Good heavens, don’t mention such a thing! The youngest son, too, with not the least expectation in the world! But he is a poet.”
“Very dangerous,” agreed Sir Horace. “Don’t think I ever saw the boy. What’s he like?”
“Quite beautiful!” said Lady Ombersley, in despairing accents.
“What, in the style of Lord Byron? That fellow has a great deal to answer for!”
“N-no. I mean, he is as fair as Cecilia is herself, and he doesn’t limp, and though his poems are very pretty, bound up in white velum, they don’t seem to take very well. I mean, not at all like Lord Byron’s. It seems sadly unjust, for I believe it cost a great deal of money to have them printed, and he had to bear the whole — or, rather, Lady Lutterworth did, according to what I have heard.”
“Now that I come to think of it,” said Sir Horace, “I do know the boy. He was with Stuart in Brussels last year. If you take my advice you’ll marry her off to Charlbury as quickly as you can!”
“Well, and so I would, if only — that is to say, of course I would not, if I thought she held him in aversion! And you must see, Horace, that it is quite out of my power to do anything of the sort when he is in bed with the mumps!”
Sir Horace shook his head. “She will marry the poet.”