“Will you oblige me with the street and number of the house?”
“Certainly; but she can scarcely get here before mid-day now. Her trains are all arranged.”
“The name of the street and number of the house, if you please, Maria.”
“Vere Street, No. 30. But she can’t be here before twelve or one to-morrow, Andrew.”
“She is never to come here. I shall go into the village the first thing in the morning, and send her a telegram. She is never to come here. Maria, you made a mistake, you went too far. If you and I are to speak to each other in the future, don’t let it occur again. Good-night; I will see that you are called in good time in the morning.”
It was useless either to argue or to fight. Dr. Maybright had, as the children sometimes described it, a shut-up look on his face. No one was ever yet known to interfere seriously with the Doctor when he wore that expression, and Aunt Maria, with Scorpion under her arm, hobbled upstairs, tired, weary, and defeated.
“I wash my hands of him and his,” she muttered; and the unhappy lady shed some bitter tears of wounded mortification and vanity as she laid her head on her pillow.
“I know I was severe with her,” murmured the Doctor to himself, “but there are some women who must be put down with a firm hand. Yes, I can bear a great deal, but to have Maria Cameron punishing Polly, and establishing a housekeeper and governess of her own choosing in this family is beyond my patience. As I said before, there are limits.”