"He didn't mean it, Septimus."
"I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He does become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he has a thorough respect for me. It is only that induces me to bear it." Then it was settled between husband and wife that they should remain in their present quarters, and that not a word further should be said at any rate by them about the Phœbe mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say another word about the mare, but he added a note to those already written in the tablets of his memory as to his son-in-law, and the note declared that no hint, let it be ever so broad, would be effectual with Mr. Traffick.
The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often to Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own club, and did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park. But on this occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the Sunday afternoon informed his father that there was a matter which he desired to discuss with him. "Father," said he, "I am getting confoundedly sick of all this."
"Confounded," said Sir Thomas, "is a stupid foolish word, and it means nothing."
"There is a sort of comfort in it, Sir," said Tom; "but if it's objectionable I'll drop it."
"It is objectionable."
"I'll drop it, Sir. But nevertheless I am very sick of it."
"What are you sick of, Tom?"
"All this affair with my cousin."
"Then, if you take my advice, you'll drop that too."