'On the first floor certainly, and I am surprised at it. I thought no one could beat you. Mother was never so successful as you were. Your flowers were always the finest.'
He rubs his hand, and says,
'Well, we shall see, we shall see.' And then, more earnestly, 'I am glad you have asked me, Chris; I was wishing for it. Good-night now; we'll talk of it by and by.'
As he seems evidently wishful to get rid of us, and as my mother seems no less anxious to go, I take my leave. On our way home we pass a theatre, and my mother expresses a wish to enter; we go into the pit, and witness a French comic opera done into English. The performance is a good one, but is spoilt by the unnecessary introduction of some foreign dancers, whose coarse vulgarity and outrageous disregard for decency shock my mother. It is seldom that my mother goes to a theatre, and she says, as we come out,
'If that is to become the fashion in theatres, I am more than glad that Jessie is not going on the stage.'
'Then she is not going?' I ask eagerly.
'Well, my dear,' replies my mother, with sudden reserve, 'it almost looks as if she had given up the idea.'
At home I find a letter on the table. I open it and read:
'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will be happy to see him and his mother at nine o'clock to-morrow evening, at the Old House at Home.'
'Why, mother,' I say, 'this is exactly like the note Josey sent to me when I first went to her place. I suppose she wants to have an evening in the old house before her brother Sheridan takes possession. I wonder if the kitchen is the same. I shall never forget my feelings when I saw it for the first time. You must come, mother, is a wonderful sight.'