“Oh, Charles, I pray you may be right!”
Sir Horace began to polish his eyeglass with considerable assiduity. “Sancia, eh? I was meaning to speak to you about her, Lizzie. Is she still at Merton?”
“Pray, where else should she be, Horace?”
“I just wondered,” he said, studying the result of his labors. “I daresay Sophy may have told you of my intentions in that direction.”
“Of course she did, and I paid her a visit, as I suppose you must have wished me to do! But I must say, my dear Horace, that I cannot conceive what should possess you to offer for her!”
“That’s the trouble,” he replied. “One gets carried away, Lizzie! And there’s no denying she’s a devilish fine woman. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me to have heard she had someone else dangling after her. Pity I settled her out at Merton! But there it is! One does these things on the spur of the moment, and it is not until one has had leisure to reflect — However, I don’t mean to complain!”
“Plenty of beauties in Brazil, sir?” inquired his nephew sardonically.
“I don’t want any of your impudence, my boy,” said Sir Horace genially. “Fact of the matter is, I doubt if I’m a marrying man!”
“Well, if it’s any consolation to you,” said Mr. Rivenhall, “you may know that my cousin has been doing her possible to hold Talgarth off from the Marquesa!”
“Now, why the devil,” demanded Sir Horace, roused to irritability, “must Sophy meddle? Talgarth, eh? Didn’t know he was in England! Well, well! He has a great deal of address, has Vincent, and, what’s more, I’ll wager he has an eye to Sancia’s fortune!”