“Exactly so, my poet!” said Sir Vincent cordially.
“I need Miss Wraxton to translate that for me,” said Sophy, “but if it means what I think it does it is no such thing! However, there is nothing more foolish than to be making a great noise over what cannot be helped, so I shall say no more. Besides, I have more important things to think of!”
“Certainly that is so,” agreed the Marquesa. “There is a way of preparing fresh-killed chickens, so Vincent shall at once kill me two chickens, for chickens this woman tells me there are in abundance, and I shall contrive.”
She then withdrew with Mrs. Clavering to the kitchen premises, her demitrain of mull muslin sweeping regally behind her over the floor and picking up a great deal of dust on the way. Sophy and Sir Vincent followed her; and as Mr. Fawnhope had by this time discovered the library and had gone in to inspect the books by the light of his tallow candle, Lord Charlbury was left alone. He was soon rejoined by Sir Vincent, who came back into the hall bearing a crusted bottle and some glasses. “Sherry,” he said, setting down the glasses. “If the slaughter of chickens is my fate, I must be fortified. But I trust I shall prevail upon the retainer to commit the actual deed. How did you hurt your arm?”
“Sophy put a bullet through it,” replied his lordship.
“Did she indeed? What a redoubtable female she is, to be sure! I suppose she had her reasons?”
“They were not what you might be pardoned for imagining!” retorted Charlbury.
“I never indulge commonplace thoughts,” said Sir Vincent, carefully wiping the neck of the bottle and beginning to pour out the wine. “Not, at all events, in relation to the Grand Sophy. Here, try this! God knows how long it has lain in the cellar! I collect I don’t drink to your elopement?”
“Good God, no!” said Charlbury, almost blanching at the thought. “I am devoted to Sophy — quite and unalterably devoted to her — but heaven preserve me from marriage with her!”
“If heaven did not, I fancy Rivenhall would,” observed Sir Vincent. “This wine is perfectly tolerable. Don’t finish the bottle before I come back, and don’t waste it on the poet!”