"Soho! This is the maid who had the impertinence to be engaged before her elder sister! Little minx! And how d'ye like Mistress Virginia's great match with your cousin? And will love keep the rectory warm for you while the windows of Castle Fairfield are blazing with lights in old England? Eh, small puss?"
Madam Trevor looked extremely ill at ease during this tasteless speech, especially as Mr. King did not drop Lucy's arm at the end of it, but seemed to hold her to reply. Lucy's face was flushed scarlet, and, to crown the affair, George Rockwell, with Vincent at his elbow, suddenly joined the group.
"I am not engaged, Mr. King," said Lucy, clearly.
"Not engaged, Lucy! Why, how now! We had all heard from thy mother, here, that Mr. Rockwell was the happiest of men," cried Mistress Harwood, noting madam's discomfort with a spice of malice.
"Faith, Mistress Harwood, my happiness is small enough to-night," remarked the portly George, coming forward. "The lady would not even grant me one Sir Roger."
Mistress Harwood raised her brows in amusement. "For an accepted husband, you are gentle not to command one," she said, laughing.
"Lucy, name Mr. Rockwell his dances at once, if he would still have them from any one so discourteous. I blush for you, indeed!" interposed her mother, sharply.
"Oh, coquetry—coquetry, madam! Youth is light o' heart. Come now, fair Lucy, and make this man happy," put in Mr. King, detaining her still.
Little Lucy raised her head, and caught Vincent's eyes upon her. His glance was not unkind. "I shall not grant Mr. Rockwell any dance to-night, and—and I am engaged, indeed, but not to him."
"What!"