“No, no, I am sure you wrong him! He has flown into a miff because I bought them against his advice — indeed, in the face of his prohibition! Do you know my cousin well, sir?”
“Known him since we were at Eton.”
“Then tell me! has he always wanted to rule the roost?”
Mr. Wychbold considered this, but arrived at no very exact conclusion. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Always one to take the lead, of course, but a man don’t come the ruler over his friends, ma’am. At least . . .” He paused, recalling past incidents. “Thing is, he’s got an awkward temper, but he’s a dashed good friend!” he produced. “Told him times out of mind he ought to watch that devilish unpleasant tongue of his, but the fact is, ma’am, there’s no one I’d liefer go to in a fix than Charles Rivenhall!”
“That is a tribute indeed,” she said thoughtfully.
Mr. Wychbold coughed deprecatingly. “Never mentioned the matter to me, of course, but the poor fellow’s had a deal to bear, if the half of what one hears is true. Turned him sour. Often thought so! Though why the deuce he must needs get himself engaged to that — ” He broke off in considerable confusion. “Forgotten what I was going to say!” he added hastily.
“Then that settles it!” said Sophy, dropping her hands slightly and allowing the bays to quicken their pace.
“Settles what?” asked Mr. Wychbold.
“Why, Cecilia told me that you were his particular friend, and if you think it will not do I need have no scruples. Only fancy, Mr. Wychbold, what misery for my dear aunt, and those poor children to have that Friday-faced creature setting them all to rights! Living under the same roof, and, you may depend upon it, encouraging Charles to be as disagreeable as he can stare!”
“It don’t bear thinking of!” said Mr. Wychbold, much struck.