Aubrey felt as if he should exceedingly have enjoyed despatching Mr Roland Burgess to the Caucasus, or Cochin-China, or any other inconceivably remote locality. He did not stay long after that. There was nothing to keep him. Bows and courtesies were exchanged, and Aubrey, feeling as if life were flat and unsatisfying, turned into the White Bear.
It was nearly dusk, and he could not see whom he met by the parlour door.
“Is that your Lordship?” greeted him, in the voice of Aunt Temperance. “Blue or yellow this even? Truly, we scarce looked for so much honour as two visits in the twelvemonth. Why, without I err, ’tis not yet three months since we had leave to see your Lordship’s crimson and silver. Pray you, walk in—you are as welcome as flowers in May, as wise as Waltom’s calf, and as safe to mend as sour ale in summer.”
“You are full of compliments, Aunt Temperance,” said Aubrey, half vexed and half laughing.
“I’m like, with strangers, Gentleman.”
Aubrey went past her into the parlour, to receive a warmer and less sarcastic welcome from the rest of his relatives—his mother excepted, who reminded him, in her usual plaintive tones, that she was a poor widow, and it was very hard if she might never see her only child.
“Well, I am here, Mother.”
“Ay, but you scarce ever come. ’Tis ever so long that we have not seen you. ’Tis cruel of my Lord Oxford thus to keep you away from your poor mother.”
“My Lord Oxford has less to do with it, my dear, than Mr Aubrey Louvaine,” said her sister. “Young men don’t commonly reckon their mothers’ company the sweetest. They never know on which side their bread’s buttered.”
“No butter will stick on my bread, Aunt,” said Aubrey, answering one proverb by another.