Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

won’t!”

“I don’t think that is at all a proper way to speak of her grace,” said Tom, with dignity.

“You are very right!” approved Phoebe, as he came into the room. “And the flowers are a very pretty attention: exactly what Mrs. Orde would say you ought to do!”

“Well, that’s what I—Oh, by Jove!” Thomas exclaimed, looking from Phoebe to Sylvester in eager inquiry.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvester.

“Oh, that’s famous!” Tom declared, shaking him warmly by the hand. “I never was more glad of anything! After you were such a goose, too, Phoebe! I wish you excessively happy, both of you!” He then hugged Phoebe, recommended her to learn how to conduct herself with propriety, and said, with rare tact, that he would take himself off at once.

“You will find her in her drawing-room,” said Sylvester kindly. “But you would be better employed, let me remind you, in making your peace with Lady Ingham!”

“Yes, I shall do so, of course, but later, because she don’t like morning-callers above half,” replied Tom.

“What you mean,” retorted Sylvester, “is that your nerves are losing their steel! Tell her that you left me on the point of writing to Lord Marlow, to request his permission to marry his daughter, and fear nothing! She’ll fall on your neck!”

“I say, that’s a dashed good notion!” exclaimed Tom, his brow clearing. “I think, if you’ve no objection, I will tell her that!”

“Do!” said Sylvester cordially, and went back into the library, to find himself being balefully regarded by his love.

“Of all the arrogant things I’ve heard you say—”

“My lord Duke!” interpolated Sylvester.

“—that remark was the most insufferable!” declared Phoebe. “What makes you so sure Grandmama will be pleased, pray?”

“Well, what else am I to think, when it was she who proposed the match to me?” he countered, his eyes full of laughter.

“Grandmama?”

“You absurd infant, who do you suppose sent me down to Austerby?”

“You mean to tell me you came at Grandmama’s bidding?”

“Yes, but with the utmost reluctance!” he pleaded outrageously.

“Oh—! Then—then when you sent me to her—Sylvester, you are atrocious!”

“No, no!” he said hastily, taking her in his arms again. He then, with great presence of mind, put a stop to any further recriminations by kissing her; and his indignant betrothed, apparently feeling that he was too deeply sunk in depravity to be reclaimable, abandoned (for the time being, at all events) any further attempt to bring him to a sense of his iniquity.