“Do I? Is it the tutors the whelps fall in love with, little goose? Stop; I'll describe my 'interesting charge,' as the books call it. He has hair you could not tell from tow. He has no eyebrows—a little unfledged slippery horror. He used to come in to dessert, and turn all our stomachs except his silly father's.”
“Poor orphan!”
“When you speak to him he never answers—blushes instead.”
“Poor child!”
“He has read of eloquent blushes, and thinks there is no need to reply in words—blushing must be such an interesting and effective substitute.”
“Poor boy, he wants a little judicious kindness. We will have him here.”
“Here!” cried the old gentleman, with horror. “What! make Font Abbey a kennel!!! No, Lucy, no, this house is sacred; no nuisances admitted here. Here, on this single spot of earth, reigns comfort, and shall reign unruffled while I live. This is the temple of peace. If I must be worried, I must, but not beneath this hallowed roof.”
This eloquence, delivered as it was with a sudden solemnity, told upon the mind.
“Dear Font Abbey,” murmured Lucy, half closing her eyes, “how well you describe it! Societies of the cosey; the walls seem padded, the carpets velvet, and the whole structure care-proof; all is quiet gayety and sweet punctuality. Here comfort and good humor move by clock-work; that is Font Abbey. Yet you are right; if you were to be seen in it no more, it would lose the life of its charm, dear Uncle Fountain.”
“Thank you, my dear—thank you. I do like to see my friends about me comfortable, and, above all, to be comfortable myself. The place is well enough, and I am bitterly sorry I must leave it, and sorry to leave you, my dear.”