Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too engrossed in admiring her own face and studying various attitudes, and the best mode of arranging her glossy black hair, to notice how strangely and fitfully Laura’s colour varied, and the voice in which she said, “Sir Sydney Harcourt, is he a new resident at Briarstone?” was not sufficiently agitated to cause remark, save to a much quicker perception than Isabel’s.
“Yes, within the last few days; such a sensation has his arrival made, you must have heard of it even in your sanctum.”
“My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the last fortnight, and only returned last night?”
“Oh, by-the-bye, so you have.”
“How much you must have missed me!”
“I did the first few days; but, my good child, how could I think of anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too? He is only here for a month. Will you dare me to the field, Laura, to make that month two, or six, or something more into the bargain?”
“No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your own peace may be endangered too.”
“My peace! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney at my feet long before any such catastrophe. Lady Harcourt! how well it sounds!”
“And Mr. Brown, Isabel?”
“The wretch! we have quarrelled irretrievably.”