“Another put off from Mr. Beauclerc! He will not be here to-day. I give him up.”
Lady Davenant stopped short, and asked whether Cecilia had told him that probably she should soon be gone?
“To be sure I did, mamma.”
“And what reason does he give for his delay?”
“None, mamma, none—not the least apology. He says, very cavalierly indeed, that he is the worst man in the world at making excuses—shall attempt none.”
“There he is right” said Lady Davenant. “Those who are good at excuses, as Franklin justly observed, are apt to be good for nothing else.”
The general came up the steps at this moment, rolling a note between his fingers, and looking displeased. Lady Davenant inquired if he could tell her the cause of Mr. Beauclerc’s delay. He could not.
Lady Cecilia exclaimed—“Very extraordinary! Provoking! Insufferable! Intolerable!”
“It is Mr. Beauclerc’s own affair,” said Lady Davenant, wrapping her shawl round her; and, taking the general’s arm, she walked on to her carriage. Seating herself, and gathering up the reins, she repeated—“Mr. Beauclerc’s own affair, completely.”
The lash of her whip was caught somewhere, and, while the groom was disentangling it, she reiterated—“That will do: let the horses go:”—and with half-suppressed impatience thanked Helen, who was endeavouring to arrange some ill-disposed cloak—“Thank you, thank you, my dear: it’s all very well. Sit down, Helen.”