“Perhaps, my dear, that depends on the condition of his throat. If you had had a mustard plaster on all night, you might not have liked it. But here we are at Thompson Hall at last.”
Thompson Hall was an old brick mansion, standing within a huge iron gate, with a gravel sweep before it. It had stood there before Stratford was a town, or even a suburb, and had then been known by the name of Bow Place. But it had been in the hands of the present family for the last thirty years, and was now known far and wide as Thompson Hall—a comfortable, roomy, old-fashioned place, perhaps a little dark and dull to look at, but much more substantially built than most of our modern villas. Mrs. Brown jumped with alacrity from the carriage, and with a quick step entered the home of her forefathers. Her husband followed her more leisurely; but he too felt that he was at home at Thompson Hall. Then Mr. Jones walked in also; but he looked as though he were not at all at home. It was still very early, and no one of the family was as yet down. In these circumstances it was almost necessary that something should be said to Mr. Jones.
“Do you know Mr. Thompson?” asked Mr. Brown.
“I never had the pleasure of seeing him—as yet,” answered Mr. Jones, very stiffly.
“Oh—I didn’t know. Because you said you were coming here.”
“And I have come here. Are you friends of Mr. Thompson?”
“Oh dear yes,” said Mrs. Brown. “I was a Thompson myself before I married.”
“Oh—indeed!” said Mr. Jones. “How very odd!—very odd indeed.”