As soon as I had shown my father to his little room, I ran down to
Percivale.
"Papa is come," I said.
"I am delighted to hear it," he answered, laying down his palette and brushes. "Where is he?"
"Gone up stairs," I answered. "I wouldn't disturb you till he came down again."
He answered with that world-wide English phrase, so suggestive of a hopeful disposition, "All right!" And with all its grumbling, and the tristesse which the French consider its chief characteristic, I think my father is right, who says, that, more than any other nation, England has been, is, and will be, saved by hope. Resuming his implements, my husband added,—
"I haven't quite finished my pipe,—I will go on till he comes down."
Although he laid it on his pipe, I knew well enough it was just that little bit of paint he wanted to finish, and not the residue of tobacco in the black and red bowl.
"And now we'll have our dinner party," I said.
I do believe, that, for all the nonsense I had talked about returning invitations, the real thing at my heart even then was an impulse towards hospitable entertainment, and the desire to see my husband merry with his friends, under—shall I say it?—the protecting wing of his wife. For, as mother of the family, the wife has to mother her husband also; to consider him as her first-born, and look out for what will not only give him pleasure but be good for him. And I may just add here, that for a long time my bear has fully given in to this.
"And who are you going to ask?" he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Morley to begin with, and"—