“Yes, Miss Stanton-Lacy, I!” said Miss Wraxton, joining the group in the porch. “You did not, I fancy, expect to see me!”
“No, and you will be very much in the way!” replied Sophy frankly. “Go in, Cecy!”
She gave her cousin a gentle push across the threshold as she spoke. Cecilia stood transfixed, as Charlbury, rising from his chair by the fire, stepped forward, his left arm interestingly reposing in its sling. Cecilia was carrying both a reticule and a feather muff, but she let both fall to the floor in her consternation. “Oh!” she exclaimed faintly. “You are hurt! Oh, Charlbury!”
She moved toward him with both hands held out, and his lordship, acting with great presence of mind, hurriedly disengaged his arm from the sling and received her in a comprehensive embrace. “No, no, dearest Cecilia! The merest scratch!” he assured her.
Such heroism caused Cecilia to shed tears. “It is all my fault! My wretched folly! I can never cease to blame myself! Charlbury, only tell me you forgive me!”
“Never, for wearing a hat which prevents my kissing you!” he said, with a shaken laugh.
She raised her head at that, smiling through her tears, and he contrived to kiss her in spite of the hat. Sophy, effectually blocking the entrance, observed this passage with all the air of one well satisfied with her labors.
“Will you be good enough to allow us to enter?” said Miss Wraxton, in frozen accents.
“Us?” said Sophy, quickly looking round. She perceived a stout figure behind Miss Wraxton, in a soaked coat and a sodden beaver, and, after peering incredulously for a moment, exclaimed, “Good God! Lord Bromford? Now, what the deuce does this mean?”
Cecilia, who had cast off her hat to join her muff on the floor raised her head from the broad shoulder that was supporting it, to say huskily, “Oh, Sophy, pray do not be cross with me! Indeed, it was not my doing! Charlbury, what happened? How do you come to be hurt?”