“Yes, I know it, Sir Miles,” replies Tom, with no peculiar expression of rapture on his face.
“And thou shalt taste it, my boy, thou shalt taste it! What is there for dinner, my Lady Warrington? Our food is plain, but plenty, lads—plain, but plenty!”
“We cannot partake of it to-day, sir. We dine with a friend who occupies my Lord Wrotham's house, your neighbour. Colonel Lambert—Major-General Lambert he has just been made.”
“With two daughters, I think—countrified-looking girls—are they not?” asks Flora.
“I think I have remarked two little rather dowdy things,” says Dora.
“They are as good girls as any in England!” breaks out Harry, to whom no one had thought of saying a single word. His reign was over, you see. He was nobody. What wonder, then, that he should not be visible?
“Oh, indeed, cousin!” says Dora, with a glance at the young man, who sate with burning cheeks, chafing at the humiliation put upon him, but not knowing how or whether he should notice it. “Oh, indeed, cousin! You are very charitable—or very lucky, I'm sure! You see angels where we only see ordinary little persons. I'm sure I could not imagine who were those odd-looking people in Lord Wrotham's coach, with his handsome liveries. But if they were three angels, I have nothing to say.”
“My brother is an enthusiast,” interposes George. “He is often mistaken about women.”
“Oh, really!” says Dora, looking a little uneasy.
“I fear my nephew Henry has indeed met with some unfavourable specimens of our sex,” the matron remarks, with a groan.