The General laughed. “My dear Lucy, whatever you say must be right. So you are coming to live at Southwick. Very glad to hear it. You know where to find us, the gate's always open; lunch at half-past one, dinner at eight—old Indians, you know; come in when you like. Pretty place I have here, everything I want—stables and horses, and (the General looked to see if Lucy was out of hearing) plenty of dogs, you know—a few too many; but my wife, you know—” The rest was lost in a burst of good-natured laughter.
They bade the Horlocks good-night and walked up the Southdown Road, looking with its line of trees along the pavement like a little mock boulevard. Frank was particularly severe in his remarks on the trim privet hedges and the little bronze sphinxes standing before the portico of yellow glass; he declared that a man must be born to put up such things, and he clearly thought this sneer a very happy one, for he repeated it, fearing that Sally had not understood. The grocer who had placed a bas-relief of himself over his door was greatly wondered at, and Sally told an amusing anecdote regarding the invitations he sent out for the first dinner party. The conversation turned on the Measons. Jack's ship had gone to China, and he was not expected back much before Christmas.
“That's very sad, Sally. How will you be able to live through so many months?”
“I don't care for him. I don't care if I never saw him again—it was Fanny who was my friend. Some nice people have come to live in that corner house—a young man, who is learning farming. Mr. Berkins insists on father not allowing us to visit any one in the Southdown Road, and Mr. Berkins can turn father round his finger, he is so much richer. I'm not allowed to see Fanny at the Manor House. As for Jack, I daresay you won't believe me, but I shouldn't care if I never saw him again.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. The gesture exasperated Sally, and she turned on her sister.
“You needn't shrug your shoulders at me, miss; I never flirted with him; you did, and then you set father against me.”
“Well, for goodness' sake don't quarrel; what does it matter? The idea of Berkins telling your father whom he should visit; and the idea of your father permitting it merely because he makes two or three thousand a year more! He surely doesn't object to your visiting Mrs. Horlock?”
“No, he couldn't do that.”
Still engaged in discussion, they entered the gates of the Manor House, and Mr. Brookes was told that Frank would stay at Southwick a few days longer, so that he might arrange about a studio. The news was not at first wholly pleasing to the old gentleman, but he remembered the anecdotes he should hear concerning his favourite painters, and was consoled. The evening passed away in the security and calm of habit, sweetened by the intimacy of familiar thoughts and customs. There was the usual expensive dinner; Mr. Brookes lit a cigar, handed the box to Frank, and said, puffing lustily, “That's a good picture, paid a lot of money for it, too much money, mustn't do it again. You were a pupil of Bouguereau; great painter; you have seen him paint; you would know his touch amid a thousand, I suppose?”
About ten o'clock steps in the passage, then the squeak-squeak of the cork; then the goggle-guggle of the water, and the young ladies came in with their grog. They kissed their father and brother, shook hands with Frank, and went to bed. Further anecdotes concerning the painters were told; further condemnations of the Southdown Road were pronounced; the house was locked up; Mr. Brookes retired, and the young men continued the conversation in their rooms. Willy told Frank all about his shop, Frank told Willy all about his studio, and they went to sleep delighted with each other and at peace with the world.