‘There are seven farms besides,’ put in Mrs. Morton. ‘My brother is going to have an audit-day next week.’
‘You should have seen the Earl’s audits,’ said Mr. Rollstone. ‘Five-and-twenty substantial tenant-farmers, besides artisans, and all the family plate on the sideboard!’
‘Ah, you should see the Northmoor plate!’ said Mrs. Morton. ‘There are racing cups, four of them—not that any one could drink out of them, for they are just centre-pieces for the table. There’s a man in armour galloping off headlong with a girl behind him— Who did your uncle say it was, Conny?’
‘The Templar and Rowena, mamma,’ said Constance.
‘Yes, that was the best—all frosted. I liked that better than the one where the girl with no clothes to speak of was running like mad after a golden ball. They said that was an heirloom, worth five hundred—’
‘Lord Burnside’s yachting cups are valued at five thousand,’ said Mr. Rollstone. ‘I should know, for I had the care of them, and it was a responsibility as weighed on my mind.’
So whatever Mrs. Morton described as to the dignities and splendours of Northmoor, Mr. Rollstone continued to cap with more magnificent experiences, so that, though he never pretended to view himself in the light of a participator in the grandeur he described, he continued, quite unintentionally, so to depreciate the glories of Northmoor, that Mrs. Morton began to recollect how far above him her
sphere had become, and to decide against his future admission to her parties.
The young ladies, as soon as tea was over, retired into corners in pairs, having on their side much to communicate. Rose Rollstone was at home for a holiday, after having begun to work at an establishment for art and ecclesiastical needlework, and it was no small treat to her and Constance to meet and compare their new experiences. Rose, always well brought up by her father, was in a situation carefully trained by a lady head, and watched over by those who deepened and cultivated her religious feeling; and Constance had to tell of the new facilities of education offered to them. Ida was too delicate for school, their mother said, and was only to have music lessons at Brighton, or in London whenever the present house could be parted with; but Herbert had already begun to work with a tutor for the army, and Constance was to go to the High School at Colbeam and spend her Sundays at Northmoor, where a prettily-furnished room was set apart for her. She described it with so much zest that Rose was seized with a sort of alarm. ‘You will live there like all the lords and ladies that papa talks of, and grow worldly and fashionable.’
‘Oh no, no,’ cried Constance, and there was a girlish kissing match, but Rose seemed to think worldliness inevitable.