"Prospectus!" replied Isabel, laughing—"Heaven knows what that is; but, now you are all listening, I will tell you every thing. What merry faces! I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me fill Brierly with such faces, and allow us to scamper over the park and feed the deer. I got old John, one day, to—"
"Who is old John?" said Miss Spottiswoode, who formed the centre of the circle.
"The butler, my dear, the old butler.—I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me do exactly as I like. Ah, Julia, Lord Ennismore is not so old as Mr. Boscawen, so he will be so good-natured!—As to dear Tom Pynsent, I know he will let Anna Maria dance from morning till night. Mr. Boscawen says married women cannot be too grave, but he never told me so till I was married. Mr. Boscawen loves Chrystal; that's one thing, therefore, she will return with us to that horrible Brierly. Mamma, we are going to run away with Chrystal."
"Are you, Mrs. Boscawen?" Her ladyship spoke languidly, as though she was resigned to the endurance of all evils, till her son-in-law should appear.
"Oh yes. Mr. Boscawen told me he should take away my sister Chrys. She is twelve years old, now; quite a companion, he says, for me, if I ever have half her application—that, I'm sure, I never shall have. Old John told me—"
The door opened and disclosed the gaunt figure of Mr. Boscawen, approaching in the dignity of extreme height, and large, bushy eyebrows. He walked slowly and silently towards his young wife, and stationed himself at the back of her chair. Isabel became mute.
"You are early, Mr. Boscawen," observed Lady Spottiswoode. "We were in the first burst of remarks sacred to our sex."
"Make me a participator," he replied, smiling.
"Never," replied Miss Wycherly. "We have too much freemasonry to admit you behind the scenes."