Mr. Rivenhall, who had decided that Sophy was to blame for his sister’s conduct, said without an instant’s hesitation, “You are mistaken. I never made any such remark!”
“Did you not? Something of that nature I think you once said to me, but it hardly signifies! It is a thousand pities that dear Lady Ombersley was forced to receive her as a guest at this precise time. Every time I enter the house I am conscious of a change in it! Even the children — ”
“It is certainly by far more lively,” he interrupted.
She gave vent to rather an artificial laugh. “It is certainly less peaceful!” She began to smooth the wrinkles from her gloves. “Do you know, Charles, I have always so much admired the tone of this house? Your doing, I know well! I cannot but feel a little melancholy when I see that ordered calm — a certain dignity, I should say — shattered by wild spirits. Poor little Amabel, I thought the other day, is growing quite out of hand. Of course, Miss Stanton-Lacy encourages her unthinkingly. One must remember that she herself has had a strangely irregular upbringing!”
“My cousin,” said Mr. Rivenhall, with finality, “has been extremely kind to the children, and is a great favorite with my mother. I must add that it is a pleasure to me to see my mother’s spirits so much improved by Sophy’s presence. Have you any errands in this part of town? May I escort you? I must be in Bond Street in twenty minutes’ time.”
In face of so comprehensive a snub as this it was impossible for Miss Wraxton to say more. Her color rose, and her lips tightened, but she managed to suppress an acid retort, and to say with the appearance at least of complaisance, “Thank you, I have to call at the library for Mama. I came in the barouche and shall be glad to take you up as far as to your destination.”
Since this was Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, she could hardly have been expected to have been pleased, for she did not care for sport of any kind and considered boxing a peculiarly low form of it. But apart from quizzing Mr. Rivenhall archly on his obvious preference for a horrid prizefighter’s society rather than for her own, she made no comment.
Cecilia, meanwhile, had fled, not to Lady Ombersley but to her cousin, whom she discovered seated before her dressing table, scanning a slip of paper. Jane Storridge was putting away her habit, but when Cecilia came into the room she seemed to feel that she was not wanted, for she gave an audible sniff, picked up Sophy’s riding boots, and went away with them under her arm.
“What do you suppose this can be, Cecy?” asked Sophy, still studying with knit brows the paper in her hand. “Jane says she found it by the window and thought it must be mine. What a funny name! Goldhanger, Bear Alley, Fleet Lane. I do not know the writing, and cannot conceive how — Oh, how stupid! it must have fallen out of the pocket of Hubert’s coat!”
“Sophy!” said Cecilia, “I have had the most dreadful interview with Charlbury!”