“Oh, auntie!” said Sophy, under her breath. She stood, holding the dress in her hands, in natural curiosity and excitement, her pretty round face all flushed. She did not want to go; but she was dutiful though she was excited, and thought of nothing beyond remonstrance. Mr. Hunstanton, for his part, lost his head altogether. He got up and took the dress out of her hands (not so awkwardly for a man, they said afterwards). When he had laid it down with clumsy care on the sofa, he took Sophy’s hand, and drew her forward. “Sit down here,” he said. “Come, Sophy, you needn’t blush. I am not going to make love to you. We’ll leave him to do that; but I can’t let you be sent away. It is her affair. Let her hear it. After all, there is nobody so much interested. Well now, look here—guess! You ladies have eyes more than we have for that sort of thing especially. Who do you suppose has sent me here to-day?”
Sophy sat where he had placed her, and looked at him, her soft little face crimson with excitement and pleasurable expectation, her blue eyes round and eager. She was a pretty little thing, and a man would be very well off, the ambassador thought, with such a fresh soft innocent creature always looking up to him. Mr. Hunstanton was sensible enough to feel that a wife always looking up to you might be, on the whole, inconvenient now and then: but still it would be pleasant; and it would just suit Pandolfini, who was a solemn sort of personage. Where is the man that would not like it? though the other sort of wife is of more use, perhaps; and he was content with his own lot. Sophy looked quite ready to accept any love-making that should come her way. Her lips were a little apart, her breath coming quick, her little heart all a-flutter, her whole mind absorbed in inquiry. Who could it be? Pandolfini was the romantic hero of Sophy’s imagination, but there were two or three others whom she would not have frowned upon. Which could it be? Her eyes fixed upon Mr. Hunstanton with growing eagerness. She made a pretty picture—all glowing innocence and ignorance, the most charming blank sheet of paper on which a man could desire to inscribe his name.
“Mr. Hunstanton!” said Mrs. Norton, shocked; “indeed I don’t approve of my child being exposed to this. Sophy, you had really better go away. It is quite improper—it is a sort of thing—we are not accustomed to——”
“I should hope not, I should hope not, my dear Mrs. Norton; though I don’t doubt that you knew all about it in your day. But Sophy is young enough to begin her experiences, and I trust we shall bring them to a close very suddenly. Now I am not going to keep you in suspense. Mrs. Norton, you know him very well. You have had ways of seeing how much we think of him. My wife has the very highest opinion—and you know in many things Mrs. Hunstanton is perhaps more difficile than I am. His means are not great. He has enough to be very comfortable, but not enough to make a great show according to our English notions” (here Sophy’s countenance fell a little, for, to be sure, where everything was so vague, it was easy to add riches to the fabulous unknown wooer); “but Sophy is not the girl to mind that: and he belongs to a very good family. She will be able to call cousin with half the princes in the Italian peerage.”
“Mr. Hunstanton!” cried Mrs. Norton, breathless; “what is all this in comparison to more essential things? It depends entirely upon Sophy’s feelings; and how can we tell till we know—not what he is, but who he is?”
“My dear lady, am not I just going to tell you? Sophy knows who he is. She has found it out in his eyes, as I did. Why, who should it be but Pandolfini? And a man any girl might be proud of—a fellow—though I say it that shouldn’t—who knows English as well, and is as fond of it as of his own language—a most accomplished fellow! I verily believe just the best man living, and so modest you would never find it out. There’s the lover I bring you, Sophy; and if you don’t appreciate him, you are not the girl I took you for. He deserves—simply the most charming wife in the world.”
“The Cavaliere!” cried Sophy under her breath. In the first moment of awe the colour fled from her cheeks.
“Mr. Pandolfini!” cried her aunt. Then she paused and looked at Sophy, who sat breathless, the blush coming back again. “Mr. Hunstanton, I am sure you will not doubt we are very sensible of the honour he does us. Not that my Sophy would not be an ornament to any family; but till I know her feelings—— Yes; he is a very charming person indeed. I have the greatest respect for him—and admiration—a man that any one might be proud of, as you say; but till I know my Sophy’s feelings——my darling?” the little woman grew tremulous. It was a situation which she had never realised.
“Oh, auntie!” cried Sophy, throwing herself into Mrs. Norton’s arms. The girl laid her head upon her aunt’s shoulder, and melted into sobs. “Oh, I am not good enough! I am not clever enough! It cannot be me he cares for.”
“My darling! when Mr. Hunstanton tells you——”