“Indeed!” she said, with a chuckle, “why, the lad must read his poetry to half the girls in the county. Mary Sugg, I have heard the doctor say, compares his verse to Spenser’s. Of course, my dear Miss Hardacre, Richard must find a woman of your mature years a most discerning critic.”
“Then, madam,” said the younger lady, with a toss of the head, “you must hear a great deal of Mr. Richard’s poetry?”
“I, my dear? I cannot abide the stuff. The dear lad showed me a little poem he had written on a certain young lady,” and the dowager beamed; “a young lady—well, I must not give away the boy’s secrets. It was all about dark eyes and raven locks, hearts and darts, love and dove. Terrible! All boys scribble this species of stuff, my dear. They discover a new goddess every month, and write poems about her cherry lips till a cherrier-lipped wench appears. By-the-way, who is that very over-dressed person—that young farmer fellow with his back to the fire?”
The Lady Letitia was indicating Mr. Lancelot with her fan. Again Miss Jilian’s gray eyes glistened; she bit her red lip, and looked at the dowager with extreme disdain.
“That gentleman, madam, is my brother.”
“Nonsense, my dear—”
“I assure you, madam, I know my own brother when I see him.”
The Lady Letitia did not appear in the least disturbed.
“Ah, now I recognize a certain family likeness,” she said. “Bless me, there is that wicked boy Richard making love to Miss Julia Perkaby. Hey! Is it not amusing to watch these young things coquetting? We women, Miss Hardacre, who have had our day, can afford to smile at the delightful follies of youth. Hem! What, supper-time already? I declare, there is Peter Gladden ready to announce it to us. I must find you a gentleman, my dear, to give you an arm. The young things will sort themselves as they think fit.”
There appeared to be a conspiracy afoot that night to render Jeffray’s hospitality obnoxious in every detail to the Hardacre folk. How was it that etiquette was so flagrantly outraged, that Mrs. Perkaby flaunted into the supper-room before a baronet’s daughter, and that Richard found himself shackled to Miss Julia Perkaby by his aunt’s machinations? How was it that Sir Peter was desired to give his arm to Mrs. Bilson, a lady who had slandered him outrageously on a certain occasion, and whom the baronet had detested ever since? How was it that Mr. Lot, whose astonished eyes beheld Richard in possession of his own especial flame, Miss Perkaby, was sent down with Miss Sugg, poor Mary, whose yellow face was as plain as a millstone, and whose conversation consisted of prim and monosyllabic nothings? And how was it that Miss Jilian was abandoned to Dr. Sugg, the elderly spinster’s refuge, and plumped down in an obscure corner? Never had so ill-assorted and tactless an affair been planned.