“My good old aunt, Miss Honeyman, made this one,” Clive would go on to say.
“Mr. Honeyman’s sister, the preacher, you know, where we go on Sunday,” Miss Ethel interposed.
“The Honeyman pedigree is not a matter of very great importance,” Lady Anne remarked gently. “Kuhn, will you have the goodness to take away these things? When did you hear of Colonel Newcome, Clive?”
An air of deep bewilderment and perplexity had spread over Lord Farintosh’s fine countenance whilst this talk about pastry had been going on. The Arabian Princess, the Queen of Hearts making tarts, Miss Honeyman? Who the deuce were all these? Such may have been his lordship’s doubts and queries. Whatever his cogitations were he did not give utterance to them, but remained in silence for some time, as did the rest of the little party. Clive tried to think he had asserted his independence by showing that he was not ashamed of his old aunt; but the doubt may be whether there was any necessity for presenting her in this company, and whether Mr. Clive had not much better have left the tart question alone.
Ethel evidently thought so: for she talked and rattled in the most lively manner with Lord Farintosh for the rest of the evening, and scarcely chose to say a word to her cousin. Lady Anne was absent with Sir Brian and her children for the most part of the time: and thus Clive had the pleasure of listening to Miss Newcome uttering all sorts of odd little paradoxes, firing the while sly shots at Mr. Clive, and, indeed, making fun of his friends, exhibiting herself in not the most agreeable light. Her talk only served the more to bewilder Lord Farintosh, who did not understand a tithe of her allusions: for Heaven, which had endowed the young Marquis with personal charms, a large estate, an ancient title and the pride belonging to it, had not supplied his lordship with a great quantity of brains, or a very feeling heart.
Lady Anne came back from the upper regions presently, with rather a grave face, and saying that Sir Brian was not so well this evening, upon which the young men rose to depart. My lord said he had “a most delightful dinner and a most delightful tart, ’pon his honour,” and was the only one of the little company who laughed at his own remark. Miss Ethel’s eyes flashed scorn at Mr. Clive when that unfortunate subject was introduced again.
My lord was going back to London to-morrow. Was Miss Newcome going back? Wouldn’t he like to go back in the train with her!—another unlucky observation. Lady Anne said, “it would depend on the state of Sir Brian’s health the next morning whether Ethel would return; and both of you gentlemen are too young to be her escort,” added the kind lady. Then she shook hands with Clive, as thinking she had said something too severe for him.
Farintosh in the meantime was taking leave of Miss Newcome. “Pray, pray,” said his lordship, “don’t throw me over at Lady Innishowan’s. You know I hate balls and never go to ’em, except when you go. I hate dancing, I do, ’pon my honour.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Newcome, with a curtsey.
“Except with one person—only one person, upon my honour. I’ll remember and get the invitation for your friend. And if you would but try that mare, I give you my honour I bred her at Codlington. She’s a beauty to look at, and as quiet as a lamb.”