"This is not a castle."
"They read like such dear horrid old places, that I was quite delighted when Miss Grainger said to me the other day, 'Digby, we are going to uncle Thornton's!' I did not know they smelt more mouldy than any cheese, and that there was no sleeping with the rats."
"Yes, the little things will trot about, spite of the cat; but then one must live and let live, Mrs. Digby."
"Don't say one must let rats live, Mrs. Marks, don't! they are almost as bad as Mr. Thornton's horrid things,—only they are stuffed."
"Mr. Thornton is a learned man," sententiously replied Mrs. Marks; "but I do think he gives so much attention to natural history and entomology. Mr. Marks thought nothing of entomology, he was all for chemistry; that's the science, Mrs. Digby!"
"Didn't it blow him up?"
"Blow him up! Was Mr. Marks a gunpowder-mill, Mrs. Digby? He perished in making a scientific experiment; you will, I trust, soon learn the difference. A man of Mr. Thornton's immense mind cannot but sicken of entomology, and return to chemistry. You will not see much, but you will hear reports—"
"Gracious!" interrupted Mrs. Digby, with an alarmed air, "I wish I were out of the place."
"Then help your handsome young lady to get a husband," sneered Mrs. Marks from the depths of her arm-chair.
"If Miss Grainger had my spirit," loftily replied Mrs. Digby, "she would now be a countess of the realm, Mrs. Marks; and if she had been guided by me, she would at least be the wife of the handsomest gentleman I ever saw."