Thus mingling consolation and reproof, Mrs. Pocklington took her way to her husband’s study.
“I want five minutes, Robert,” she said, sitting down.
“It’s worth a thousand pounds a minute, my dear,” said Mr. Pocklington, genially, laying down his pipe and his papers. “What with this strike——”
“Strike!” said Mrs. Pocklington with indignation. “Why do you let them strike, Robert?”
“I can’t help it. They want more money.”
“Nonsense! They want to be taught their Catechisms. But I didn’t come to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t, my dear. Your views are refreshing.”
“Robert, Laura’s got a fancy in her head about young George Neston.”
“Oh!”