"But that in the case of your Patterne Port a bottle of it would outvalue the catalogue of nuptial presents, Willoughby, I would recommend your stationing some such constabulary to keep watch and ward." said Dr. Middleton, as he filled his glass, taking Bordeaux in the middle of the day, under a consciousness of virtue and its reward to come at half-past seven in the evening.
"The rascals would require a dozen of that, sir," said De Craye.
"Then it is not to be thought of. Indeed one!" Dr. Middleton negatived the idea.
"We are no further advanced than when we began," observed Lady Busshe.
"If we are marked to go by stages," Mrs. Mountstuart assented.
"Why, then, we shall be called old coaches," remarked the colonel.
"You," said Lady Culmer, "have the advantage of us in a closer acquaintance with Miss Middleton. You know her tastes, and how far they have been consulted in the little souvenirs already grouped somewhere, although not yet for inspection. I am at sea. And here is Lady Busshe in deadly alarm. There is plenty of time to effect a change--though we are drawing on rapidly to the fatal day, Miss Middleton. We are, we are very near it. Oh! yes. I am one who thinks that these little affairs should be spoken of openly, without that ridiculous bourgeois affectation, so that we may be sure of giving satisfaction. It is a transaction like everything else in life. I, for my part, wish to be remembered favourably. I put it as a test of breeding to speak of these things as plain matter-of-fact. You marry; I wish you to have something by you to remind you of me. What shall it be?--useful or ornamental. For an ordinary household the choice is not difficult. But where wealth abounds we are in a dilemma."
"And with persons of decided tastes," added Lady Busshe.
"I am really very unhappy," she protested to Clara.
Sir Willoughby dropped Laetitia; Clara's look of a sedate resolution to preserve silence on the topic of the nuptial gifts made a diversion imperative.
"Your porcelain was exquisitely chosen, and I profess to be a connoisseur," he said. "I am poor in Old Saxony, as you know; I can match the country in Savres, and my inheritance of China will not easily be matched in the country."
"You may consider your Dragon vases a present from young Crossjay," said De Craye.
"How?"
"Hasn't he abstained from breaking them? the capital boy!
Porcelain and a boy in the house together is a case of prospective disaster fully equal to Flitch and a fly."
"You should understand that my friend Horace--whose wit is in this instance founded on another tale of a boy--brought us a magnificent piece of porcelain, destroyed by the capsizing of his conveyance from the station," said Sir Willoughby to Lady Busshe.
She and Lady Culmer gave out lamentable Ohs, while Miss Eleanor and Miss Isabel Patterne sketched the incident. Then the lady visitors fixed their eyes in united sympathy upon Clara: recovering from which, after a contemplation of marble, Lady Busshe emphasized, "No, you do not love porcelain, it is evident, Miss Middleton."
"I am glad to be assured of it," said Lady Culmer.
"Oh, I know that face: I know that look," Lady Busshe affected to remark rallyingly: "it is not the first time I have seen it."
Sir Willoughby smarted to his marrow. "We will rout these fancies of an overscrupulous generosity, my dear Lady Busshe."
Her unwonted breach of delicacy in speaking publicly of her present, and the vulgar persistency of her sticking to the theme, very much perplexed him. And if he mistook her not, she had just alluded to the demoniacal Constantia Durham.
It might be that he had mistaken her: he was on guard against his terrible sensitiveness. Nevertheless it was hard to account for this behaviour of a lady greatly his friend and admirer, a lady of birth. And Lady Culmer as well!--likewise a lady of birth. Were they in collusion? had they a suspicion? He turned to Laetitia's face for the antidote to his pain.
"Oh, but you are not one yet, and I shall require two voices to convince me," Lady Busshe rejoined, after another stare at the marble.
"Lady Busshe, I beg you not to think me ungrateful," said Clara.
"Fiddle!--gratitude! it is to please your taste, to satisfy you.
I care for gratitude as little as for flattery."
"But gratitude is flattering," said Vernon.
" Now, no metaphysics, Mr. Whitford."