Sir Horace frowned in an effort of memory. “I thought his name was Bernard. Why shouldn’t he like it?”
“I am not speaking of Ombersley, Horace. You must remember Charles!”
“If you’re talking about that eldest boy of yours, of course I remember him! But what right has he to say anything, and why the devil should he object to my Sophy?”
“Oh, no, not to her! I am sure he could not do so! But I fear he may not like it if we are to be plunged into gaiety just now! I daresay you may not have seen the announcement of his own approaching marriage, but I should tell you that he has contracted an engagement to Miss Wraxton.”
“What, not old Brinklow’s daughter? Upon my word, Lizzie, you have been busy to some purpose! Never knew you had so much sense! Eligible, indeed! You are to be congratulated!”
“Yes,” said Lady Ombersley. “Oh, yes! Miss Wraxton is a most superior girl. I am sure she has a thousand excellent qualities. A most well-informed mind, and principles such as must command respect.”
“She sounds to me like a dead bore,” said Sir Horace frankly.
“Charles,” said Lady Ombersley, staring mournfully into the fire, “does not care for very lively girls, or — or for any extravagant folly. I own, I could wish Miss Wraxton had rather more vivacity. But you are not to regard that, Horace, for I had never the least inclination toward being a bluestocking myself, and in these days, when so many young females are wild to a fault, it is gratifying to find one who — Charles thinks Miss Wraxton’s air of grave reflection very becoming!” she ended, in rather a hurry.
“You know, Lizzie, it’s a queer thing that any son of yours and Ombersley should have grown into such a dull stick,” remarked Sir Horace dispassionately. “I suppose you didn’t play Ombersley false, did you?”
“Horace!”