Major Pendennis was not in the least annoyed by the gentleman's ill-humor. On the contrary, it delighted him. "So," thought he, "a rival is in the field;" and he offered up vows that Sir Derby might be, not only a rival, but a winner too, in this love-match in which he and Pen were engaged.
"I fear I interrupted your fencing lesson; but my stay in Chatteries is very short, and I was anxious to make myself known to my old fellow-campaigner Captain Costigan, and to see a lady nearer who had charmed me so much from the stage. I was not the only man épris last night, Miss Fotheringay (if I must call you so, though your own family name is a very ancient and noble one). There was a reverend friend of mine, who went home in raptures with Ophelia; and I saw Sir Derby Oaks fling a bouquet, which no actress ever merited better. I should have brought one myself, had I known what I was going to see. Are not those the very flowers in a glass of water on the mantle-piece yonder?"
"I am very fond of flowers," said Miss Fotheringay, with a languishing ogle at Sir Derby Oaks—but the baronet still scowled sulkily.
"Sweets to the sweet—isn't that the expression of the play?" Mr. Pendennis asked, bent upon being good-humored.
"'Pon my life, I don't know. Very likely it is. I ain't much of a literary man," answered Sir Derby.
"Is it possible?" the major continued, with an air of surprise. "You don't inherit your father's love of letters, then, Sir Derby? He was a remarkably fine scholar, and I had the honor of knowing him very well."
"Indeed," said the other, and gave a sulky wag of his head.
"He saved my life," continued Pendennis.
"Did he now?" cried Miss Fotheringay, rolling her eyes first upon the major with surprise, then toward Sir Derby with gratitude—but the latter was proof against those glances; and far from appearing to be pleased that the apothecary, his father, should have saved Major Pendennis's life, the young man actually looked as if he wished the event had turned the other way.
"My father, I believe, was a very good doctor," the young gentleman said, by way of reply. "I'm not in that line myself. I wish you good morning, sir. I've got an appointment—Cos, by-by—Miss Fotheringay, good morning." And, in spite of the young lady's imploring looks and appealing smiles, the dragoon bowed stiffly out of the room, and the clatter of his saber was heard as he strode down the creaking stair; and the angry tones of his voice as he cursed little Tom Creed, who was disporting in the passage, and whose peg-top Sir Derby kicked away with an oath into the street.