“That’s my property—my musical-box!”
Young Lumley could hardly restrain his fury; he felt a savage inclination, to rise and kick the complacent host, round his own drawing-room. Several ladies succeeded one another at the piano, and Miss Lumley gave a notable performance of Grieg and Chopin, during which, general conversation waxed both loud and animated.
By and by card-tables were produced, and people sat down to the good old game of whist. Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not a card-player, came over and seated herself beside her niece, armed with many sharp questions.
“Now tell me, dear,” she began, “how do you like your housekeeper? I suppose she has been here for years?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And manages everything?” she demanded.
“Yes, Aunt Dorothy.”
“Well, mind you don’t let her manage you,” she urged with dictatorial emphasis. “Take everything into your own hands. Of course, you have gone over the silver?”
“No, not yet.”
“Oh, my dear! Nor the house-linen?”