Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the advance he supposed he had made in that lady’s favour, was highly disappointed, vexed, and angry, when this apology was delivered; nor did he, nor perhaps could he, conceal what he felt, although his severe observer, Mr. Sandford, was present.
“I am a very unfortunate man!” said he, as soon as the servant was gone who brought the message.
Sandford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise and contempt.
“A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sandford,” repeated he, “although you treat my complaint contemptuously.”
Sandford made no reply, and seemed above making one.
They sat down to dinner;—Rushbrook eat scarce any thing, but drank frequently; Sandford took no notice of either, but had a book (which was his custom when he dined with persons whose conversation was not interesting to him) laid by the side of his plate, which he occasionally looked into, as the dishes were removing, or other opportunities served.
Rushbrook, just now more hopeless than ever of forming an acquaintance with Lady Matilda, began to give way to symptoms of despondency; and they made their first attack, by urging him, to treat on the same level of familiarity that he himself was treated, Mr. Sandford, to whom he had, till now, ever behaved with the most profound tokens of respect.
“Come,” said he to him as soon as the dinner was removed, “lay aside your book and be good company.”
Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him—stared in his face—and cast them on the book again.
“Pshaw,” continued Rushbrook, “I want a companion; and as Miss Woodley has disappointed me, I must have your company.”