“Charles?” Amabel asked, forgetting her woes for a moment.
“Yes, Charles, so you must let me tidy you a little, and straighten the sheets. There! Now, Charles, Miss Rivenhall will be pleased to receive you!”
She moved the screen, so that the candlelight fell on the bed, and nodded to Charles to sit down beside his sister. He did so, holding the claw like little hand in his and talking to the child in a cheerful way that succeeded in diverting her until Sophy brought a cup of milk to the bedside. The sight of this at once made her peevish. She wanted nothing; it would make her sick to swallow any milk; why would not Sophy leave her in peace?
“I hope you don’t mean to be so unkind as to refuse it, when I have come especially to hold the cup for you,” Charles said, taking it from his cousin. “A cup with roses on it, too! Now, where had you this? I am sure I do not recognize it!”
“Cecilia gave it to me for my very own,” Amabel replied. “But I don’t wish for any milk. It is the middle of the night, not the proper time for drinking milk!”
“I hope Charles has admired your real roses,” said Sophy, sitting down on the edge of the bed and raising Amabel to rest against her shoulder. “We are so jealous, Charles, Cecy and I! Amabel has such a fine beau that we are cast quite into the shade. Only look at the bouquet he brought her!”
“Charlbury?” he said, smiling.
“Yes, but I like your posy best,” Amabel said.
“Of course you do,” said Sophy. “So take a sip of the milk he is offering you. I must tell you that a gentleman’s feelings are very easily wounded, my dear, and that, you know, would never do!”
“Very true,” Charles corroborated. “I shall be thinking that you have a greater regard for Charlbury than for me, and that will very likely make me fall into a melancholy.”