“Not satisfactory, dear?”
“Satisfactory! the place has gone to rack and ruin. I don’t believe those cursed poachers have left a head of game on the estate; but I know who’s at the bottom of it, and he’d better look out.”
“I’m very sorry, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, going behind her son’s chair to stroke his hair. “The garden looks very nice; both Madge and I thought so. Why didn’t you run over now and then to see that the keeper was doing his duty.”
“Run over?” cried Rolph, savagely; “who was going to run over here for every fool one met to be pointing his cursed finger at you, and saying, ‘There goes the fellow who didn’t get married.’”
“My dearest boy,” said Mrs Rolph, soothingly, as she laid her cheek on the top of his head, “don’t fret about that now. You know it’s nearly eighteen months ago.”
“I don’t care if it’s eighteen hundred months ago—and do leave off, mother, you know I hate having my hair plastered down.”
Mrs Rolph kissed the place where her cheek had been laid, and then drew back, showing that the complaint had not been merited, for, so far from the hair being plastered down, there was scarcely any to plaster, Rolph’s head being cropped close in athletic and on anti-Samsonic principles as regarded strength.
“It was very, very hard for you, my dearest, and it is most unfortunate that they should have chosen the same time to return as we did. You—er—heard that they are back?”
“Of course I did, and if you’d any respect for your son, you’d sell this cursed hole, and go somewhere else.”
“Don’t—don’t ask me to do that, Rob, dear,” said Mrs Rolph. “I know your poor father looked forward to your succeeding to it and keeping it up.”