Anthony laughed.
“So like a woman,” he said; “thinks that when she has said all that she’s got to say that there’s nothing more to be said.”
“You shall have your say another time,” she promised him.
Anthony kept on the house in Bruton Square. It was larger than they wanted now the Tetteridges were gone, but he liked the old-fashioned square with its ancient rookery among the tall elms. He let the big classroom for an office to a young architect who had lately come to Millsborough. His aunt was delighted with the change. She had hated Mrs. Tetteridge, who had disapproved of her sitting on sunny afternoons on a Windsor chair outside the front door. It had always been her habit. And why what was harmless in Moor End Lane should be sinful in Bruton Square she could not understand. She was growing feeble. It was want of work according to her own idea, which was probably correct. As a consequence she was looking forward to heaven with less eagerness.
“I used to think it would be just lovely,” she confessed to Anthony one day, “sitting about and doing nothing for ever and ever. It sounds ungrateful, but upon my word I’m not so sure that I’ll enjoy it.”
“Uncle did believe in God,” said Anthony. “I had a talk with him before he died. ‘There must be somebody bossing it all,’ he said. His hope was that God might think him of some use and find him a job.”
“He was a good man, your uncle,” answered his aunt. “I used to worry myself about him. But perhaps, after all, the Lord ain’t as unreasonable as He’s made out to be.”
Mr. Mowbray was leaving the business more and more to Anthony. As a compensation for denial in other directions he was allowing himself too much old port and the gout was getting hold of him. Betty took him abroad as much as possible. Travelling interested him, and, away from his old cronies, he was easier to manage. He had always adored his children, and Betty, in spite of his failings, could not help being fond of him. Anthony knew that so long as her father lived she would never marry. Neither was he in any hurry. The relationship between them was that of a restful comradeship; and marriage could have made but little difference. Meanwhile the firm of Mowbray and Cousins was prospering. The private business was almost entirely in the hands of old Johnson, the head clerk. It was to his numerous schemes for the building up of Millsborough that Anthony devoted himself. The port of Millsborough was already an accomplished fact and its success assured. A syndicate for the construction of an electric tramway running from the docks to the farthest end of the densely populated valley had already got to work. A yet more important project was now in Anthony’s mind. Hitherto Millsborough had been served by a branch line from a junction fifteen miles away. Anthony wanted a new track that should cross the river to the west of the new lock and, skirting the coast, rejoin the main line beyond the moor. It would bring Millsborough on to the main line and shorten the distance between London and the north by over an hour. It was the name of Mowbray that figured upon all documents, but Millsborough knew that the brain behind was Mowbray’s junior partner, young Strong’nth’arm. Millsborough, believing in luck, put its money on him.
The Coomber family had returned to The Abbey somewhat unexpectedly. No tenant for the house had come forward. Also Sir Harry had come into unexpected legacy. It was not much, but with economy it would enable them to keep up the old place. It had been the home of the Coomber family for many generations, and Sir Harry, not expecting to live long, was wishful to die there.
Mr. Mowbray was away, and old Johnson, the head clerk, had gone up to The Abbey to welcome them home and talk a little business.