One day Ibbetson had another visitor in his chambers, Mrs Thornton. How she had got there was the first wonder in his mind; for she was a very helpless person, seldom going to the point of originating even an idea.
“My dear, and your chimney been smoking! How can you live here!” was her greeting.
“It’s not a bad chimney when the wind isn’t from the north,” said Jack, wheeling forward a chair, and flinging the end of his cigar into the fire. “But you ought to have told me you were coming. It’s very good of you, Aunt Harriet.”
“I told no one,” said Mrs Thornton, with a placid air of triumph at her own achievements, “not even your uncle Peter. But, my dear Jack, I am quite miserable about you.”
“How can I help it?” Jack replied gravely. He knew what she meant, and would not pretend not to understand her.
“Oh, I do so wish you would go straight out and marry Phillis, before this dreadful man gets hold of her! Really, it is too provoking.”
There was a pause.
“What have you heard? Has Phillis written?” asked Jack in his quietest tone.
“Not Phillis. And that is vexing your uncle, too. He says everything is concealed from him. Mr Trent wrote and told him.”
Jack muttered something not complimentary to Mr Trent. Then he said aloud: