“Charlbury, for a sensible man you say the stupidest things!” Sophy told him. “Pray what do you imagine must be her answer in this predicament?”
“But if she no longer loves Fawnhope — if she perhaps regrets turning me off — ?”
“She does, of course, but it is one of those things which appear to be so easy until one considers a little more deeply. Do so! If your situations were reversed — you the impoverished poet, Augustus the man of fortune — perhaps she might be brought to listen to you. But it is not so! Here is her poet, whom she has declared she will marry despite of all her family — and you will allow that he has been uncommonly faithful to her!”
“He — ! If he has a thought to spare for anything beyond his trumpery verses, I will own myself astonished!”
“He has not, of course, but you will scarcely expect my cousin to believe that! He has attached himself to her to the exclusion of every other female since before I came to England, and that, you know, must rank in the eyes of the world as devotion of no common order! You, my poor Charlbury, labor under all the disadvantages of rank and fortune! How heartless Cecilia must be to cast off her poet to wed you! You may depend upon it that this circumstance weighs with her! Her disposition is tender. She will not, without good reason, inflict pain upon one whom she believes loves her with all his heart. There is only one thing to be done. We must give her good reason for doing so.”
He knew her well enough to feel a considerable degree of uneasiness. “For God’s sake, Sophy, what now do you mean to do?”
“Why, make her feel that it is you who are to be pitied, to be sure!”
Uneasiness changed to the deepest foreboding. “Good God! How?”
She laughed. “I daresay it will suit you better not to know, Charlbury!”
“Now, Sophy, listen to me!”