"I must try conciliation," I thought; "rough as he is, Mr. Thornton may be smoothed down. If that will not do, I shall make myself so disagreeable that he will be glad to get rid of me." And with a thought and prayer for the absent one, I fell asleep at a late hour.
Our breakfast was a great improvement on the dinner of the preceding day; but this fact failed to conciliate Mrs. Brand, whom I found alone in the parlour. Scarcely giving herself time to return my good-morning, she said, eagerly:
"My dear, would you believe it! They actually had ducks! yes, ducks!" she repeated with indignant emphasis; "whilst we dined on cold beef, they had ducks! Now, it is a mere trifle—a matter of no consequence; but it nevertheless happens that I am particularly fond of ducks."
"Ducks!" I echoed, not exactly understanding her meaning.
"Yes, my dear, they, Marks, the servants in short, had ducks for their dinner; I found it out this morning by the merest chance."
Mrs. Langton here entered the room, looking as fresh and lovely as the morning. She gave her dear Bertha a kiss, which the other returned, saying breathlessly:
"Edith, they had ducks, the cold beef was good enough for us; they had ducks."
Edith looked surprised, and, on hearing the story, smiled and said: "Ah!" with charming grace, "and that she fancied she rather liked ducks, but was not quite sure." She sat down in the deep embrasure of the window, and looked out at the park with an abstraction that was not disturbed by the sound of the opening door, and the appearance of Edward Thornton. He informed us that Mr. Thornton was laid up with a rheumatic attack.
"Distressing!" abstractedly said Mrs. Brand. "I suppose you know they had ducks?"
And as we sat down to breakfast, she recapitulated her wrongs. Mr. Thornton heard her with perfect unconcern, and said "really," then spoke to me of the beauty of the morning, and of Mr. Thornton's rheumatism.