“I hope so,” said Charles. “And that reminds me, Mama! I have just intercepted another of that puppy’s floral offerings to my sister. This billet was attached to it.”
Lady Ombersley took the proffered missive, and looked at it in dismay. “What shall I do with it?” she asked.
“Put it on the fire,” he recommended.
“Oh, no, I could not, Charles! It might be quite unexceptionable! Besides — why, it might even contain a message from his mother for me!”
“Highly unlikely, but if you think that, you had better read it.”
“Of course, I know it is my duty to do so,” she agreed unhappily.
He looked rather contemptuous, but said nothing, and after a moment’s indecision she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet. “Oh, dear, it is a poem!” she announced. “I must say, it is very pretty. Listen, Charles!
‘Nymph, when thy mild cerulean gaze
Upon my restless spirit casts its beam — ’”
“I thank you, I have no taste for verse!” interrupted Mr. Rivenhall harshly. “Put it on the fire, ma’am, and tell Cecilia she is not to be receiving letters without your sanction!”