“Well, then, run away to thy developing work. It is a new kind of job for thee; and I doan’t think it will suit thee—not a bit of it. I would go with thee but developing working men is a step or two out of my way. And I’ll tell thee something, the working men—and women, too—will develop theirsens if we only give them the time and the means, and the brass to do it. But go thy ways and if thou art any wiser after Brougham’s talk I’ll be glad to know what he said.”
“I shall stay and dine with Jane and thou hed better join us. We may go to the opera afterwards.”
“Nay, then, I’ll not join thee. I wouldn’t go to another opera for anything—not even for the great pleasure of thy company. If I hev to listen to folk singing, I want them to sing in the English language. It is good enough, and far too good, for any of the rubbishy words I iver heard in any opera. What time shall I come to Jane’s for thee?”
“About eleven o’clock, or soon after.”
“That’s a nice time for a respectable squire’s wife to be driving about London streets. I wish I hed thee safe at Annis Hall.”
With a laugh Annie closed the door and hurried away and Dick turned to his father.
“I want to talk with you, sir,” he said, “on a subject which I want your help and sympathy in, before I name it to anyone else. Suppose we sit still here. The room is quiet and comfortable and we are not likely to be disturbed.”
“Why then, Dick! Hes tha got a new sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir, and she is the dearest and loneliest woman that ever lived. I want you to stand by me in any opposition likely to rise.”
“What is her name? Who is she?” asked the squire not very cordially.