“Cecilia!” said Mr. Fawnhope, staring at her in astonishment. “You were not here before, were you?”
“No,” she said, blushing furiously. “Oh, no! I — I came with Miss Wraxton!”
“Oh, was that how it was?” he said, rather relieved. “I did not think I had seen you.”
She said resolutely, but in some little agitation, “Augustus, I will not trifle with you! I must tell you that I find I have made a great mistake. I cannot marry you!”
“Noble, noble girl!” Mr. Fawnhope said, much moved. “I honor you for this frankness and must ever deem myself fortunate to have been permitted to adore you. The experience has purified and strengthened me. You have inspired me with a poetic fervor for which the world may yet thank you, as I do! But marriage is not for such as I am. I must put aside the thought. I do put it aside! You should marry Charlbury, but my play you must allow me to dedicate to you!”
“Th-thank you!” faltered Cecilia, a good deal taken aback.
“Well, she is going to marry Charlbury,” said Sophy bracingly. “And now that that is settled, Augustus, pray will you go and find the eggs for Sancia?”
“I know nothing of eggs,” he said. “I fetched Talgarth from the cellar, and he has gone in search of them. I am going to write a poem that has been taking shape in my brain this past hour. Should you object to my entitling it ‘To Sophia, Holding a Lamp?’”
“Not in the least,” said Sophy affably. “Take this candle, and go into the library. Shall I tell Clavering to light a fire there for you?”
“It is of no consequence, thank you,” he replied absently, receiving the candlestick from her and wandering off in the direction of the library.