She said no more, but allowed Salamanca to break into a canter and to overtake Lord Charlbury and Cecilia.
She found them conversing comfortably, the constraint Cecilia had felt upon finding herself obliged to ride alone in his company having been speedily banished by the friendly ease of his manners. Neither by word nor by look did he remind her of what lay between them but began to talk to her at once on some unexceptionable subject that he knew would interest her. This made a pleasant change for her, Mr. Fawnhope’s conversation being, at present, almost wholly confined to the scope and structure of his great tragedy.
To listen to a poet arguing with himself — for she could scarcely have been said to have borne any part in the discussion — on the merits of blank verse as a dramatic medium was naturally a privilege of which any young lady must be proud, but there could be no denying that talk for half an hour to a man who listened with interest to anything she said was, if not precisely a relief, certainly a welcome variation in her life. Not for nothing had his lordship endured the world for ten more years than his youthful rival. Mr. Fawnhope’s handsome face, and engaging smile might dazzle the female eye, but Mr. Fawnhope had not yet learned the art of conveying to a lady the gratifying impression that he considered her a fragile creature, to be cherished and in every way considered. Lord Charlbury might be constitutionally incapable of addressing her as Nymph, or of comparing bluebells unfavorably with her eyes, but Lord Charlbury would infallibly provide a cloak for her if the weather were inclement, lift her over obstacles she could well climb without assistance, and in every way convince her that in his eyes she was a precious being whom it was impossible to guard too carefully.
It would have been too much to have said that Cecilia was regretting her rejection of his lordship’s suit, but when Sophy and Charles joined her she was certainly conscious of a faint feeling of dissatisfaction at having her tête-à-tête interrupted.
She tried to discuss the matter in a dispassionate way with Sophy, later, but found it curiously hard to utter any of the sentiments she had persuaded herself she felt. Finally, she bent her head over a piece of embroidery, and asked her cousin whether Lord Charlbury had yet offered for her.
Sophy laughed at this. “Good God, no, you goose! Charlbury has no serious intentions toward me.”
Cecilia kept her eyes lowered. “Indeed? I should have said that he showed the most decided partiality for you.”
“My dear Cecy, I would not tease you by adverting to this subject, but I am persuaded that what Charlbury wears on his sleeve is not his heart. I should not wonder at it if he were to end his days a bachelor.”
“I do not think it,” said Cecilia, snipping her silk. “And nor, I fancy, do you, Sophy. He will offer for you, and — and I hope you will accept him, because if one were not in love with another I cannot imagine any gentleman one would prefer to him.”
“Well, we shall see,” was ah Sophy would say.