"Well," said the squire, "you seem holding a counsel here; I hope it is peace, not war. Come, Melville, show your friend to his room."
Considering how greatly the squire had been annoyed by his son's driving out in the post-chaise, he spoke kindly and pleasantly; but Melville was already assuming his grand airs.
"Here, Arundel," he said, "I will take you to your room: first door on the left, I suppose?"
"You will allow me to do as I have done all my life, Melville," said his mother. "I always go with my guests to their chambers, to see they are comfortable. Now, Mr. Arundel."
To Melville's horror, his mother put the accent on the second syllable. And as she tripped away—for her figure was still light and supple—he whispered: "He won't know who she means. Tell her, pray, not to say Arundel."
Joyce was indignant about the proceedings of the whole day, and she said:
"If you think it becoming to correct your mother, do it yourself." Then, going up to her father, she put her hand through his arm. "Come and see the last brood of chickens with me and Piers. They are lovely, dear dad."
Melville turned away with a satirical smile on his lips, thinking it was impossible to do anything with Joyce: she was content to let things remain as they were.
Meantime his friend was conducted to the "best room" Mrs. Falconer had to offer—a spacious square room, with a large four-post bed, hung with white dimity, and so high that a pair of steps by which to climb into it did not seem out of place.
The window was rather small for the size of the room, and the frames thick, but roses and honeysuckle hung their wreaths round it and perfumed the air.