“It was not done by design,” said his lordship meekly. “Nothing could have been more ill judged!” said Sophy. “Not ill judged!” he pleaded. “Unfortunate!”
Mr. Wychbold came up just then with Sophy’s lemonade. “Hallo, Everard!” he said. “I didn’t know you were fit to be seen yet! How are you, dear boy?”
“Bruised in spirit, Cyprian, bruised in spirit! My sufferings under the complaint that struck me down were as nothing to what I now undergo. Shall I ever live it down?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” replied Mr. Wychbold consolingly. “Dashed paltry thing to happen to one, of course, but the town’s memory ain’t long! Why, do you remember poor Bolton taking a toss into the Serpentine, clean over his horse’s head? No one talked of anything else for almost a week! Poor fellow had to rusticate for a while, but it blew over, y’know!”
“Must it be rustication?” Lord Charlbury asked.
“On no account!” said Sophy decidedly. She waited until Mr. Wychbold’s attention was claimed by a lady in puce satin, and then turned toward her companion, and said forthrightly, “Are you a very good dancer, sir?”
“Not, I fancy, above the average, ma’am. Certainly not to compare with the exquisite young man we are both watching.”
“In that case,” said Sophy, “I would not, if I were you, solicit Cecilia to waltz!”
I have already done so, but your warning is unnecessary; she is engaged for every waltz and also the quadrille. The most I can hope for is to stand up with her in a country dance.”
“Don’t do it!” Sophy advised him. “To be trying to talk to anyone when you should be attending to the figure is always fatal, believe me!”