"I wish he had asked you, Patty!"
"Don't say that, dear, because there is in it something that annoys me. I don't think of myself in such matters, but I do hope to see you the happy wife of some happy man."
"I hope you will, with all my heart," said Clary, standing up,—"of one man, of one special, dearest, best, and brightest of all men. Oh dear! And yet I know it will never be, and I wonder at myself that I have been bold enough to tell you." And Patience, also, wondered at her sister's boldness.
Ralph Newton,—Ralph from the Priory,—did come down to the villa, and did accept the invitation to dinner which was given to him. The event was so important that Patience found it necessary to go up to London to tell her father. Mary went with her, desirous to see something of the mysteries of Southampton Buildings, while Clarissa remained at home,—waiting. After the usual skirmishes with Stemm, who began by swearing that his master was not at home, they made their way into Sir Thomas's library. "Dear, dear, dear; this is a very awkward place to bring your cousin to," he said, frowning. Mary would have retreated at once had it not been that Patience held her ground so boldly. "Why shouldn't she come, papa? And I had to see you. Mr. Newton is to dine with us to-morrow." To-morrow was a Saturday, and Sir Thomas became seriously displeased. Why had a Saturday been chosen? Saturday was the most awkward day in the world for the giving and receiving of dinners. It was in vain that Patience explained to him that Saturday was the only day on which Mr. Newton could come, that Sir Thomas had given his express authority for the dinner, and that no bar had been raised against Saturday. "You ought to have known," said Sir Thomas. Nevertheless, he allowed them to leave the chamber with the understanding that he would preside at his own table on the following day. "Why is it that Saturday is so distasteful to him?" Mary asked as they walked across Lincoln's Inn Fields together.
Patience was silent for awhile, not knowing how to answer the question, or how to leave it unanswered. But at last she preferred to make some reply. "He does not like going to our church, I think."
"But you like it."
"Yes;—and I wish papa did. But he doesn't." Then there was a pause. "Of course it must strike you as very odd, the way in which we live."
"I hope it is not I who drive my uncle away."
"Not in the least, Mary. Since mamma's death he has fallen into this habit, and he has got so to love solitude, that he is never happy but when alone. We ought to be grateful to him because it shows that he trusts us;—but it would be much nicer if he would come home."
"He is so different from my father."