“No papa,” said a bright voice from the stairs, “you haven’t it at all right; Mrs. Charnock Poynsett, if you please—isn’t it?”
“I believe so,” replied Cecil. “Charnock always seems my right name.”
“And you have all the right to retain it that Mrs. Poynsett had to keep hers,” said Lady Tyrrell, as they went up-stairs to her bedroom. “How is she?”
“As usual, thank you; always on the sofa.”
“But managing everything from it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Never was there such a set of devoted sons, models for the neighbourhood.”
Cecil felt a sense of something chiming in with her sources of vexation, but she only answered, “They are passionately fond of her.”
“Talk of despotism! Commend me to an invalid! Ah! how delightfully you contrive to keep your hair in order! I am always scolding Lenore for coming in dishevelled, and you look so fresh and compact! Here is my sanctum. You’ll find Mrs. Duncombe there. She drove over in the drag with her husband on their way to Backsworth. I am so glad you came, there is so much to talk over.”
“If our gentlemen will give us time,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “but I am afraid your senator will not be as much absorbed in the dogs as my captain.”