THE coach dropped Mr. Ferrers at the gate of a villa about three miles from town. The lodge-keeper charged himself with the carpet-bag, and Ferrers strolled, with his hands behind him (it was his favourite mode of disposing of them), through the beautiful and elaborate pleasure-grounds.
"A very nice, snug little box (jointure-house, I suppose)! I would not grudge that, I'm sure, if I had but the rest. But here, I suspect, comes madam's first specimen of the art of having a family." This last thought was extracted from Mr. Ferrers's contemplative brain by a lovely little girl, who came running up to him, fearless and spoilt as she was; and, after indulging a tolerable stare, exclaimed, "Are you come to see papa, sir?"
"Papa!—the deuce!"—thought Lumley; "and who is papa, my dear?"
"Why, mamma's husband. He is not my papa by rights."
"Certainly not, my love; not by rights—I comprehend."
"Eh!"
"Yes, I am going to see your papa by wrongs—Mr. Templeton."
"Oh, this way, then."
"You are very fond of Mr. Templeton, my little angel."
"To be sure I am. You have not seen the rocking-horse he is going to give me."