“If your Lordship has left your heart in England,” said Betty, with a smile, “I give you warning you must not tell our ladies here of it.”
“I care not who knows it, Miss Tayloe,” he cried. That fustian, insincerity, was certainly not one of his faults. “I care not who knows it. To pass her chariot is to have your heart stolen, and you must needs run after and beg mercy. But, ladies,” he added, his eye twinkling; “having seen the women of your colony, I marvel no longer at Miss Manners's beauty.”
He set us all a-laughing.
“I fear you were not born a diplomat, sir,” says Patty. “You agree that we are beautiful, yet to hear that one of us is more so is small consolation.”
“We men turn as naturally to Miss Manners as plants to the sun, ma'am,” he replied impulsively. “Yet none of us dare hope for alliance with so brilliant and distant an object. I make small doubt those are Mr. Carvel's sentiments, and still he seems popular enough with the ladies. How now, sir? How now, Mr. Carvel? You have yet to speak on so tender a subject.”
My eyes met Patty's.
“I will be no more politic than you, my Lord,” I said boldly, “nor will I make a secret of it that I adore Miss Manners full as much.”
“Bravo, Richard!” cries Patty; and “Good!” cries his Lordship, while Betty claps her hands. And then Comyn swung suddenly round in his chair.
“Richard Carvel!” says he. “By the seven chimes I have heard her mention your name. The devil fetch my memory!”
“My name!” I exclaimed, in surprise, and prodigiously upset.