And, what is more, excessively unfortunate, because I don’t doubt that had he been able to attach Cecilia, which I am sure he must have done, for nothing could be more amiable than his disposition, while his manners and address are just what they ought to be! But girls are so foolish, and take romantical notions into their heads, besides all kinds of encroaching fancies. However, I am happy to think that Cecilia is not one of these dreadful modern misses, and of course she will be guided by her parents! But no one can deny that nothing could be more ill timed than Charlbury’s mumps!”

Sir Horace, once more opening his snuffbox, regarded her with an amused and sapient eye. “And what is Miss Cecilia’s particular encroaching fancy?” he enquired.

Lady Ombersley knew that her eldest son would have counseled her to preserve a discreet silence; but the impulse to unburden herself to her brother was too strong to be denied. She said, “Well, you will not repeat it, I know, Horace, but the fact is that the silly child thinks she is in love with Augustus Fawnhope!”

“Would that be one of Lutterworth’s brood?” asked Sir Horace. “I don’t think much of that for a match, I must say!”

“Good heavens, don’t mention such a thing! The youngest son, too, with not the least expectation in the world! But he is a poet.”

“Very dangerous,” agreed Sir Horace. “Don’t think I ever saw the boy. What’s he like?”

“Quite beautiful!” said Lady Ombersley, in despairing accents.

“What, in the style of Lord Byron? That fellow has a great deal to answer for!”

“N-no. I mean, he is as fair as Cecilia is herself, and he doesn’t limp, and though his poems are very pretty, bound up in white velum, they don’t seem to take very well. I mean, not at all like Lord Byron’s. It seems sadly unjust, for I believe it cost a great deal of money to have them printed, and he had to bear the whole — or, rather, Lady Lutterworth did, according to what I have heard.”