“Yes, my dear; but it was quite a wreck from neglect till your uncle married me, and he—er—we restored the place—his ancestral home—to what it is.”
“You did it up beautifully, auntie.”
“Well, I hope I did, my dear child, but I have often regretted the money that was spent over a place situated as it is.”
“Situated, auntie? Why, it’s lovely.”
“Lovely by nature, my dear, but tainted and made ugly by the surroundings of the society which affects the district.”
“Is it, auntie?”
“Yes, my dear. I never could understand why it should be selected by those dreadful people for their sports and pastimes.”
“You mean the racing, auntie?”
“Yes, my dear”—with a shudder. “Tilborough has become a den of infamy—a place which attracts, so many times a year, all the ruffiandom of London, to leave its trail behind. The late Lord Tilborough used to encourage it with his stablings and horses, and—yes, it’s a great pity: the sweet innocency of the neighbourhood is destroyed.”
“Yes, auntie.”