“Good God!” said his lordship.
“Exactly so! You cannot wonder that she was swept off her feet. I daresay you had never so much as thought of calling her a nymph!”
“Miss Stanton — Sophy! Even to win Cecilia, I cannot write poetry, and if I could I’ll be dashed if I would write such — Well, in any event I have no turn in that direction!”
“Oh, no, you must not attempt to outshine Augustus in that line!” said Sophy. “Your strength lies in being precisely the kind of man who can procure one a chair when it has come on to rain.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you not?” she asked, turning her head to look at him with raised brows.
“I expect I could, but — ”
“Believe me, it is by far more important than being able to turn a verse!” she told him. “Augustus is quite unable to do so. I know, because he failed miserably at the Chelsea Gardens. I thought he would, which is why I made him escort Cecilia and me there on a day when you could see it would come on to pour. Our muslins were soaked, and I daresay we should have died of an inflammation of the lung had not one of my old friends procured a hackney to convey us home. Poor Cecy! She became almost cross with Augustus!”
He burst out laughing. “Major Quinton spoke nothing but the truth about you!” he declared. “I am already terrified of you!”
She smiled, but said, “Well, you need not be, for I mean to help you.”