“Why do you throw Brook Park in my teeth?”
“I feel an inclination to make myself disagreeable to-day. Are you never like that?”
“I hope not.”
“And then I am bound to follow up what poor dear mamma began. But I won’t throw Brook Park in your teeth. The ladies I know are very nice. Sir Walter Wanless is a little grand;—isn’t he?”
“You know,” said he, “that I should be much happier here than there.”
“Because Sir Walter is so grand?”
“Because my friends here are dearer friends. But still it is right that I should go. One cannot always be where one would be happiest.”
“I am happiest with Bobby,” said she; “and I can always have Bobby.” Then she gave him her hand at the gate, and he went down to the parsonage.
That night Mrs. Rossiter was closeted for awhile with her son before they both went to bed. She was supposed, in Beetham, to be of a higher order of intellect,—of a higher stamp generally,—than her husband or daughter, and to be in that respect nearly on a par with her son. She had not travelled as he had done, but she was of an ambitious mind and had thoughts beyond Beetham. The poor dear parson cared for little outside the bounds of his parish. “I am so glad you are going to stay for awhile over at Brook Park,” she said.
“Only for three days.”