“Your little Sophy, sir, has not allowed me — us! — one moment’s peace or comfort since she descended upon this house!” said Mr. Rivenhall roundly.
“Charles, you shall not say so!” cried his mother, flushing. “It is unjust! How can you — how can you, when you recall her goodness, her devotion — !” Her voice failed; she groped blindly for her handkerchief.
The color rose also to Mr. Rivenhall’s cheeks. “I do not forget that, ma’am. But this exploit — !”
“I cannot think where you can have had such a notion! It is untrue! Sophy went away because of the intemperate language you used toward her, and as for imagining that Charlbury was with her — ”
“I know he was with her!” he interrupted. “If I needed proof, I have it in this note she was so obliging as to leave for me! She makes no secret of it!”
“In that case,” said Sir Horace, refilling his glass, “she is certainly up to some mischief. Try this Madeira, my boy. I’ll say this for your father, he’s a capital judge of a wine!”
“But, Charles, this is terrible!” gasped Lady Ombersley. “Thank heaven I did not forbid Cecilia to go after her! Only think what a scandal! Oh, Horace, pray believe I had no suspicion!”
“Lord, I’m not blaming you, Elizabeth! I told you not to let Sophy worry you! Well able to take care of herself; always was!”
“I declare, Horace, you pass all bounds! Is it nothing to you that your daughter is in a fair way to ruining herself?”
“Ruining herself!” said Mr. Rivenhall contemptuously. “Do you indeed believe in such a fairy tale, ma’am? Have you lived with my cousin for six months without getting her measure? If that Spanish woman is not also at Lacy Manor at this moment I give you leave to call me a blockhead!”