“Well, don’t put yourself in a taking, Lizzie,” recommended Sir Horace, maintaining his placidity without effort. “Fallen out with Charles, eh? Well, I thought she would. Daresay it will do him good. How’s Ombersley?”
“Really, Horace!” said his sister indignantly. “One would suppose you not to have a scrap of affection for dear Sophy!”
“You’re out there, old lady, for I’m devilish fond of her,” he returned. “That don’t mean I’m going to make a cake of myself over her tricks, though. Daresay she wouldn’t thank me for meddling. You may depend upon it she’s up to some mischief!”
As Dassett came in at this moment, with suitable refreshment for the traveler, the conversation had to be suspended. When he had withdrawn, Lady Ombersley resumed it, saying, “At least I am able to assure you that you will see Sophy tonight, for Cecilia has gone with Miss Wraxton to bring her back!”
“Who’s Miss Wraxton?” enquired Sir Horace, pouring himself out a glass of Madeira.
“If you ever listened to a word anyone says to you, Horace, you would know that Miss Wraxton is the lady Charles is about to marry!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” said Sir Horace, sipping his wine. “Can’t expect me to carry a lot of names in my head! I remember now, though; girl you said was a dead bore.”
“I never said any such thing!” retorted Lady Ombersley. “To be sure, I cannot quite like — But it was you who said she sounded to you like a dead bore!”
“If I said it, you may depend upon it I was right. Quite a tolerable wine, this. Now I come to think of it, you told me Cecilia was in a way to be married too — Charlbury, ain’t it?”
Lady Ombersley sighed. “Alas, it went off! Cecilia could not be brought to accept him. And now Charles has ceased to object so very much to Augustus Fawnhope, and although Ombersley says he will never countenance it, I daresay he will. You may as well know, Horace, that Lord Charlbury has been showing Sophy a great deal of most distinguishing attention.”