“Talgarth,” said Mr. Rivenhall, firmly grasping Sophy by one wrist, “I beg you will take care of these infernal ducklings, and I wish you a very pleasant evening! Sir Horace has arrived in town, and I must instantly restore his daughter to him!”
“Rivenhall,” said Sir Vincent gravely, “I perfectly understand you, and I applaud your presence of mind. Allow me to offer you my felicitations! I will convey your apologies to my wife. Let me advise you to lose no time in taking your departure! The poet will all too shortly return!”
“Sir Vincent!” cried Sophy, dragged irresistibly to the door. “Give my portmanteau to Miss Wraxton, and beg her to make what use she pleases of the contents! Charles, this is crazy! Did you come in your curricle? What if it should begin to rain again? I shall be drenched!”
“Then you will be well served!” retorted her unchivalrous cousin.
“Charles!” uttered Sophy, shocked. “You cannot love me!”
Mr. Rivenhall pulled the door to behind them, and in a very rough fashion jerked her into his arms, and kissed her. “I don’t. I dislike you excessively!” he said savagely.
Entranced by these lover like words, Miss Stanton-Lacy returned his embrace with fervor, and meekly allowed herself to be led off to the stables.