“Dear me, don’t you like my leaves? They’re so natural you might sweep them up.”
“Exactly. You might as well be out in the garden. Now, there’s a thing up in one of the spare bed-rooms. It’s yellow, with a faint brown pattern.”
“That, Jem! Why, it belonged to your grandmother Spencer, and was moved here when she came and spent her last year with us. It’s hideous. I was going to have it taken down.”
“It’s about the best thing in the house,” said Jem, critically. “You should have it made up for this room.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, I hope your wife will have some taste of her own.”
“I hope she’ll leave it to me. I shall stipulate she does when I marry and settle.”
“I am afraid, my dear, life in London doesn’t lead young men to marry and settle.”
“Well, mamma, I’m sure I don’t know about that,” said Jem, sitting down on the obnoxious chintz and stroking his beard. “Girls look out for so much now-a-days.”
“I hope, my dear, you haven’t been falling in with any girl,” said Mrs Crichton, composedly—for she was not excitable—but a little struck by Jem’s manner. “You make so many acquaintances. When you were abroad I was quite anxious.”
“I assure you, mamma, I was a miracle of discretion when I was abroad—couldn’t have been better with you at my elbow,” said Jem, unable to resist a little emphasis.