Elizabeth Mansfield by A Very Dutiful Daughter

sympathetic feelings for Miss Summer-Smythe evaporated as suddenly as they’d come. The silly chit could manage for herself from now on. Prue washed her hands of her.
    Sir Ralph restored the equilibrium of the group by referring again to Osbert’s poem and demanding a reading. When Prue added her voice to the rest, Osbert weakened and took from his pocket his opus magnus, a poem of two eight-line stanzas, which would have taken no more than two minutes to read had not every line been greeted with hoots, catcalls, and derision. Every “rosy lip,” every “glance divine,” every “coppery curl” was met with a loud laugh from the listeners. Every “whilst” and “beguil’st,” every “lover pained” and “kiss abstained” was ridiculed merrily. Before very long, even the poet himself had joined in the hilarity, for he was quick to learn what many writers had learned before him—that if one cannot move one’s readers to tears, moving them to laughter is the next best thing. So successful was the comic rendering that his listeners demanded three readings before they were satisfied.
    Prue, her sides aching from her laughter, looked up to find that Brandon had returned and was regarding her balefully. “Aha!” she clarioned, “You’ve returned! No doubt you’ve finished your book and, having nothing better to do, decided to rejoin us.”
    The others, their discrimination having been weakened by laughter, reacted as if Prue had said something of enormous wit. They roared. Brandon merely frowned and asked Prue if he might, by her leave, have a word with her in private. Prue raised her eyebrows in surprise, excused herself, and walked away on Brandon’s arm. “Well, sir,” she asked when they were out of earshot, “what is it you wish to say to me?”
    “I hope that you’ll not take this amiss … That is, I realize that it is not my affair, but … by your leave …”
    “I’ve given you my leave by accompanying you, sir. Please speak up,” Prue said with a shade of impatience.
    “With your own reputation as my only concern, Miss Glendenning, I merely wished to point out that you’ve been the object of some … er … disapproval from the … er …”
    Prue frowned at him in dawning annoyance. “I think I begin to feel the direction of the wind,” she said stiffly. “Are you about to offer me a scolding, Mr. Peake?”
    “No, no, of course not. I would scarcely call it … No, indeed. Merely a cautionary word of advice from someone who—”
    “Someone who is almost a stranger to me, isn’t that right, Mr. Peake?”
    “Perhaps. But, you see, my friendship with your sister is my justification for presuming to speak to you on a matter which I would otherwise not venture to broach.”
    “Indeed? Do you think my sister would countenance such presumption?” Prue asked angrily.
    Brandon began to feel misgivings. “I suppose not,” he admitted, “b-but I only wished to point out to you that your … by your leave … your beauty, if I may be blunt, is such that you attract many eyes, and therefore, it behooves you to show even more restraint than is necessary for other young women—”
    “I’m glad you find me beautiful, sir, but I fail to see—”
    “I didn’t say
I
find you beautiful, exactly. I mean, I do, of course … that is … I mean that
others
do, and therefore, your rather unseemly conduct this morning seems all the more indecorous because people tend to keep their eyes on you …”
    “I see,” Prue said with dangerous restraint, her eyes giving off a steely glint. “Other people—but not you, of course—find me beautiful, and therefore, I may not enjoy myself with my friends, is that what you’re saying?”
    “I’m afraid I’m not expressing myself at all well, Miss Glendenning,” Brandon said, beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable in his chosen role as protective uncle. “I only meant to remind you of the wisdom of Aesop when he said, ‘Outward show is a poor