He was reluctant, but since Lord Francis was waving to Sophy, and showed every desire to speak to her, he was unable to demur. When the phaeton drew up, he climbed ponderously down from it, and Lord Francis leaped equally nimbly up into it, saying, “Sophy, that was a capital ball last night! What a lovely creature your cousin is, to be sure!”
Sophy set her horses in motion again. “Francis, does the cork oak grow in the southern provinces in Spain?”
“Lord, Sophy, how should I know? You was in Cadiz! Can’t you recall? Who cares for cork oaks, in any event?”
“I hope,” said Sophy warmly, “that when you have done with being the worst flirt in Europe, Francis, you will win a very beautiful wife, for you deserve one! Do you know anything about the ballata?”
“Never heard of it in my life! What is it? a new dance?”
“No, it’s a tree, and it grows in Jamaica. I hope she will be as good natured as she is beautiful.”
“Trust me for that! But, y’know, Sophy, it ain’t like you to be boring on and on about trees! What’s come over you?”
“Lord Bromford,” sighed Sophy.
“What, that prosy fellow you had up beside you just now? He told Sally Jersey last night how valuable guinea grass was for horses and cattle; heard him! Never saw poor Silence so silenced!”
“I wish she had given him one of her setdowns. I must put you down when we reach the Riding House, for Cecilia will be waiting for me.”