“Quod,” said Finetta, quite unmoved; “it’s Latin, I think, for prison, or else it’s stable slang—I’m not sure. But oh, my,” she continued, seeing her father’s frown, “we’ve got some news, too.”
“Have you, dear?” said mamma, “what is it?”
“We saw Humphrey Lloyd this morning.”
“Who is Humphrey Lloyd?” said Lady Rea.
“The keeper at Penreife.”
“Penreife,” said Sir Hampton, waking up out of a day-dream of judicial honours. “Yes, a beautiful estate. I would have bought it instead of this if it had been for sale.”
“Well,” said Finetta, “we met Humphrey, and talked to him.”
“I think, if I may be allowed to say so, Finetta, that you are too fond of talking to grooms and keepers, and people of that class,” said Miss Matilda, glancing at her brother, who, however, was once more immersed in judicial dreams—J.P., custos rotulorum, commission of the peace, etcetera.
“Tennyson used to hang with grooms and porters on bridges, and he’s poet laureate; so why shouldn’t I?” said Finetta, rebelliously.
“I don’t think it’s nice, though,” said mamma. “Aunt Matty is quite right; you are not a child now, my dear.”