Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, in
waist-deep flounces, a Paris bonnet, and her husband's dignity,
impressed her cousins, and whatever use they might make of their
tongues, it was not till after she was gone.
As the carriage stopped at the door, Sophy came out with such a
perturbed an expression, as seemed to prelude fatal tidings; and Lucy
was pausing to listen, when she was hastily summoned by her husband.
'Oh! mamma, he has struck Maurice such a blow!' cried Sophy.
'Algernon? where's Maurice? is he hurt?'
'He is in the library with papa.'
She was there in a moment. Maurice sat on his father's knee,
listening to Pope's Homer, leaning against him, with eye, cheek, and
nose exceedingly swelled and reddened; but these were symptoms of
which she had seen enough in past days not to be greatly terrified,
even while she exclaimed aghast.
'Aye!' said Mr. Kendal, sternly. 'What do you think of young
Dusautoy's handiwork?'
'What could you have done to him, Maurice?'
'I painted his image.'
'The children got into the painting-room,' said Mr. Kendal, 'and did
some mischief; Maurice ought to have known better, but that was no
excuse for his violence. I do not know what would have been the
consequence, if poor little Albinia's screams had not alarmed me. I
found Algernon striking him with his doubled fist.'
'But I gave him a dig in the nose,' cried Maurice, in exultation; 'I
pulled ever so much hair out of his whiskers.
Pages:
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604