“There, don’t be a fool, man,” said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. “Have patience. My Pol— Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion. She’s very young, and every day she’ll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone.”
“But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She’s a dear, good mistress, Dan, and
I’d do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some institution; and if she can’t she’ll pension him off somewhere. I think he’ll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You’ve got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John.”
“Yes; he’d got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir.”
“Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and—there, I needn’t preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you’re as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life.”
“Not quite, sir,” cried the young man quietly.
“All right; I know what you mean.”
“Then you consent, sir?”