“Bosh!” said Sophy, very angry. “That’s the way girls talk when they are first engaged. It sounds ridiculously sentimental from an old married woman like you. You are absurdly prejudiced against Mr. Sefton.”
“Call it prejudice, if you like. I call it instinct. Birds are prejudiced against cats. I look upon Mr. Sefton as my natural enemy.”
“And I suppose, if he should call, you will be uncivil, and spoil my chances?”
“No, I will not spoil your chances—such as they are.”
“How disagreeably you say that. One would think you were jealous of an old admirer.”
“No, I am not jealous; only I don’t like to see you duped by meaningless attentions. I have no doubt Mr. Sefton does admire you—I only fear his admiration is worthless—but I will do everything that a sister can do to encourage him.”
After this conversation Eve was particularly polite to Mr. Sefton. Poor Sophy was so terribly in earnest in her desire to make a good marriage. The elder sister’s success had been so startling, so easy a conquest, so delightful a settlement in life, that it was natural the younger sister should cherish hopes on her own account. People told Sophy that she was growing more and more like Eve. Hope’s flattering tale told her that she was quite as pretty, while vanity suggested that she had more savoir faire. Poor Sophy had always prided herself upon her savoir faire, though how a quality which is, as it were, the final polish produced by society friction, could have been acquired by a young lady in a cottage at Fernhurst, must needs remain a mystery. Eve looked at her sister, and saw that she was prettier than the ruck of girls to be met in a London season. Her beauty had the dewy freshness that comes of a rustic rearing; her eyes were brighter than the eyes of the hardened fashionable belle. Her complexion had the delicacy of colouring which was characteristic of Colonel Marchant’s daughters—which had been, alas! Peggy’s chief beauty.
Sophy, dressed as Eve had dressed her, and with her somewhat rebellious hair treated artistically by the skilful Benson, was certainly a very attractive young woman; and it seemed to Eve not impossible that Sefton, beginning the flirtation without any serious aim, might end by asking Sophy to be his wife. He was entirely his own master, could marry to please himself, without consideration of worldly advantage; only, unhappily, those are just the men who marry for self-aggrandizement rather than for simple inclination. It is not as if all heiresses were hideous or disagreeable, ignorant or underbred. Even England can furnish richly dowered young women who are both handsome and amiable; so why, asks the youthful peer or landowner, should I marry some portionless beauty, when I may as easily add to my revenue or treble my acreage? The original possessor considers his estate as the nucleus of a great property, which he and each successive holder should increase by judicious alliances; until the rolling mass swells into a territory like the duchy of Cleveland, and its acres are reckoned by thousands. Eve had heard the mothers and fathers talk of their sons’ views and duties, even if the sons themselves did not openly avow their intention of marrying to better themselves.
The only hope in Sophy’s case lay in a certain eccentricity of temper in Wilfred Sefton which might show itself in a disadvantageous marriage. The very fact that he had remained so long a bachelor indicated that he was not eager for a prize in the matrimonial market. He had been content to stand by and see many prizes carried off by men who were personally and socially his inferiors.
He had been a frequent visitor in Charles Street since Sophy’s arrival. Her liveliness evidently pleased him; they were always talking and laughing in corners wherever they met, and seemed to have worlds to say to each other.
“It is delightful to meet anyone so fresh as your sister at the end of the season,” he explained to Eve, “just when most of us are feeling dull and jaded, and almost ready to yawn in each other’s faces, like my lord and my lady in the Marriage à la Mode.”
He invited Mrs. Vansittart and her sister to a tea-party, given in honour of Sophy, who had expressed an ardent desire to see the house in Tite Street—the bachelor den which little Mr. Tivett had described to her in glowing colours. Eve hesitated about accepting the invitation, knowing that her husband disliked Sefton as much as she did herself; but the hesitation was overcome by Sophy’s arguments.
“He is giving the party on purpose for me,” she pleaded. “The invitation arose out of my wish to see his library, which Mr. Tivett had been praising. He could not pay me a more marked attention, could he now?”
“It is certainly an attention,” assented Eve, distressed by Sophy’s sanguine hopes, so likely to end in disappointment.
“Don’t spoil all my chances by refusing,” urged Sophy. “He would be offended—and men are so easily choked off.”
“Not a man who is really in earnest.”
“Perhaps not—but he may not be quite in earnest yet. He may not have made up his mind. Of course I should be a very bad match. He cannot forget that all at once. There is a stage in which a man who is inclined to fall in love lets himself drift, don’t you know, Eve? He may be drifting—and it would be a pity to discourage him.”
Every woman is at heart a matchmaker. Eve yielded, and accepted Sefton’s invitation for five o’clock tea and a little music.
“Shall you have any singing?” she asked, with a sudden fear of meeting Signora Vivanti.
No—there would be no singing.
“I only asked the American banjo man to amuse you,” said Mr. Sefton. “He
