“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Why, that you’re wondering whether you might not make me a great cake. I shouldn’t attempt it, if I were you: I never dangle—not even after quite pretty girls.”
“Quite pretty—?” she gasped. “M-me?”
“Oh, decidedly!” he said, perfectly gravely. “Or so I think, but, then, I’ve no prejudice against dark girls. I daresay others might not agree with me.”
“They do!” she asserted, pink with indignation. “They say—everyone says I’m beautiful!”
He managed to preserve his countenance, but his lips twitched slightly. “Yes, of course.” he replied. “It’s well known that all heiresses are beautiful!”
She stared up at him incredulously. “But—don’t you think I’m beautiful?”
“Very!”
“Well, I know I am,” she said candidly. “Ancilla thinks I shouldn’t say so—and I meant not to, on account of losing some of my beauty when I do. At least, that’s what Ancilla said, but I don’t see how it could be so, do you?”
“No, indeed: quite absurd! You do very right to mention the matter.”
She thought this over, darkly suspicious, and finally demanded: “Why?”
“People are so unobservant!” he answered in dulcet accents.
She broke into a trill of delicious laughter. “Oh, abominable! You are the horridest creature! I’ll have no more to do with you!”
He waved a careless farewell as she flitted away, but he thought privately that when she forgot her affectations, and laughed out suddenly, acknowledging a hit, she was disastrously engaging.
Miss Trent, who had approached them in time to hear these last sallies, observed in a dispassionate voice: “Quite abominable!”
He smiled, his eyes dwelling appreciatively on her. She was always very simply attired; but she wore the inexpensive muslins and cambrics which she fashioned for herself with an air of elegance; and never had he seen her, even on the hottest day, presenting anything but a cool and uncrumpled appearance.
Sir Waldo, having cleared up one small misunderstanding, had contrived to get upon excellent terms with Miss Trent. His ear had been quick to catch the note of constraint in her voice when she had asked him if he was acquainted with her cousin; he fancied that she was pleased when he disclaimed any knowledge of Mr Bernard Trent; and he presently sought enlightenment of Julian.
“Bernard Trent?” said Julian. “No, I don’t think—oh, yes, I do, though! You mean General Trent’s son, don’t you? I’ve only seen him by scraps: the sort of cawker who talks flash, and is buckish about horses!” He broke off, as a thought occurred to him, and exclaimed: “Good God, is he related to Miss Trent?”
“Her cousin, I collect.”
“Lord! Well, he’s the greatest gull that ever was!” said Julian frankly. “Crony of Mountsorrel’s—at Harrow together, I fancy—and you know what a Peep o’ Day boy he is, Waldo! Always kicking up larks, and thinking himself at home to a peg, which the lord knows he ain’t, and going about town accompanied by the worst barnacles you ever clapped eyes on!”
“Yes, I know young Mountsorreclass="underline" one of the newer Tulips!”
“Tulips!” snorted Julian, with all the scorn of one who had been introduced, at his first coming-out, into the pink of Corinthian society. “Smatterers, more like! A set of roly-poly fellows who think it makes them regular dashes to box the Watch, or get swine-drunk at the Field of Blood! And as for being of the Corinthian-cut—why, most of ’em ain’t even fit to go!”
“You’re very severe!” said Sir Waldo, amused.
“Well, it was you who taught me to be!” Julian retorted. “Mountsorrel is nothing but a cod’s head, I own, but only think of the ramshackle fellows he’s in a string with! There’s Watchett, for instance: he wears more capes to his driving-coat than you do, but you’ll none of you admit him to the Four-Horse Club! Stone, too! His notion of sport is bull-baiting, and going on the spree in Tothill Fields. Then there’s Elstead: he knocks-up more horses in a season than you would in a lifetime, and flies at anything in the shape of gaming. Thinks himself slap up to the echo. Why, when were you ever seen rubbing shoulders in one of the Pall Mall hells with a set of Greek banditti?”
“Is that what young Trent does?”
“I don’t know: not a friend of mine. I haven’t seen him lately: rusticating, I daresay. He didn’t look to me like a downy one, so you may depend upon it he found himself in Tow Street.”
Armed with this information, Sir Waldo very soon found the opportunity to set himself right with Miss Trent. Wasting no subtlety, he told her cheerfully that she had misjudged him.
They were riding side by side, Julian and Tiffany a little way ahead. Mrs Underhill felt herself powerless to prevent the almost daily rides of this couple, but she did insist on Ancilla’s accompanying them, and was sometimes able to persuade her son to join the party. Occasionally Patience Chartley went with them; and, quite frequently, Sir Waldo.
Ancilla turned her head to look at him, raising her brows. “In what way, sir?”
“In laying your cousin’s follies at my door.” He smiled at her startled look, and betraying flush. “What happened to him? Lindeth tells me he’s in a string with young Mountsorrel, and his set.”
“He was used to be—he and Lord Mountsorrel were at school together—but no longer, I hope. His connection with him was ruinous.”
“Ran into Dun territory, did he? The younger men don’t come much in my way, but I’ve always understood that Mountsorrel has more money than sense, which makes him dangerous company for other greenhorns. Too many gull-catchers hang about him—not to mention the Bloods, and the Dashers, and the Care-for-Nobodies.”
“Yes. My uncle said that, or something like it. But indeed I never laid Bernard’s follies at your door, sir!”
“Didn’t you? That’s discouraging: I believed I had solved the riddle of your dislike of me.”
“I don’t dislike you. If—if yon thought me stiff when we first met it was because I dislike the set you represent!”
“I don’t think you know anything about the set I represent,” he responded coolly. “Let me assure you that it is very far removed from Mountsorrel’s, ma’am!”
“Of course—but you are—oh, the Nonesuch!” she said with a quick smile. “Mountsorrel and his friends copy you—as far as they are able—”
“I beg your pardon!” he interrupted. “They don’t—being unable! Dear me, I sound just like the Beautiful Miss Wield, don’t I? Some of them copy the Corinthian rig—in the exaggerated form I don’t affect; but my set, Miss Trent, is composed of men who were born with a natural aptitude for athletic sports. We do the thing; Mountsorrel, and his kind, are lookers-on. Don’t ask me why they should ape our fashions, when there is nothing more distasteful to them, I daresay, than the sports we enjoy, for I can’t tell you! But you may believe that the youngster anxious to excel in sporting exercises is safer amongst the Corinthians than amongst the Bond Street beaux.”