‘Not much,’ replied Nora, laying the magazine down. ‘The stories are all on the same old lines. I wish they would invent something new. I think it is so silly to imagine that Christmas tales must all take place in the snow, or be mixed up with a ghost. Isn’t it?’
‘Very silly,’ acquiesced the old lady, ‘but as long as there are fools found to read them there will be fools left to write them. But where is Ilfracombe this afternoon? Has he left you all alone to the mercy of the Christmas numbers?’
Nora laughed.
‘It is my own fault,’ she said. ‘He wanted me to go out driving with him; but I thought it was too cold. So I think he and Mr Portland have walked over to Critington to play billiards with Lord Babbage.’
‘Ah, I thought dear Ilfracombe had not forgotten his little wife,’ said the dowager in a patronising tone of voice, which Nora immediately resented. ‘He is too good and amiable for that. I am sure that you find him most kind in everything. Don’t you, dear?’
The young countess shrugged her shoulders.
‘So, so; much the same as other young men,’ she answered, and then perceiving the look of astonishment on her mother-in-law’s face, she added, apologetically,—‘You see, Lady Ilfracombe, that I’m not a gusher, and I’ve known so many men I’ve learned to pretty well estimate the value of them.’
‘Perhaps, my dear, though I cannot say I think the knowledge an enviable one for a young lady. But you do not rank your husband with other men, surely? He loves you dearly—anyone could see that—and you must have a good deal of influence over him.’
‘Yes, I fancy I’ve got the length of his foot,’ replied Nora.
‘My dear son is almost all that a son and a husband should be,’ continued the fond mother. ‘He has no vices, but he has some weaknesses, and one is, being too easily influenced by his friends, and all his friends are not such as I should choose for him. I may be wrong, but I distrust that Mr Portland with whom Ilfracombe is so intimate. More than that, I dislike him.’