“Pray, did she come at his call?”
“No; but when I carried the brat home, poor Duncombe told me almost with tears, how good she is to them. I fancy he feels their mother’s neglect of them.”
“I’m sure I gave her credit for having none,” said Rosamond.
“Ah!” said Jenny, “you should have heard her condolences with my sister Mary on her last infliction. Fancy Mary’s face!”
“No doubt it was to stem a torrent of nursery discussions,” said Cecil. “Such bad taste!”
“Which?” murmured Rosamond under her breath, with an arched eyebrow.
“Plain enough,” said Frank: “if a woman is a woman, the bad taste is to be ashamed of it.”
“Yes,” said Cecil, “that is the way with men; they would fain keep us down to the level of the nursery.”
“I thought nurseries were usually at the top of the house.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Poynsett, disregarding this mischievous suggestion, “they mean that organization, like charity, should begin at home.”