I am a match for my aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words.

But Dora doesn't understand my satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, "Oh, rot!" which scatters my intellectual armoury.
"It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me," I said to my aunt, "and the proposal is tempting--the prospect is indeed fascinating--but--" "But what ?" "I have so many engagements," I answered feebly.
My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to the bookshelves in the farther room.

"Can't you manage to throw them aside?
Poor Dora will be inconsolable." I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora's broad back and sturdy hips.

Inconsolable?
I can't make out what the good lady is driving at.
If she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to parade me as her appanage.

But titles in her drawing-room are as common as tea-cups.