Robina was troublesome at home. She was too large and strong and determined for the invalid mother, and she was always rubbing the excellent, indefatigable aunt the wrong way. Mr Starling was, however, fond of Robina. He liked her bold, free, frank manners. He enjoyed her little tiffs with Aunt Felicia, and rather encouraged them than otherwise, and the very first thing he asked now when he entered the house was if his daughter had returned.
“Yes;” said Miss Jennings, who made it an invariable rule to sit up for her brother-in-law, however late he returned home. “Yes,” she said, yawning, “Oh, dear me, Edward! Don’t leave that muddy mark in the hall; I have such trouble getting those flags kept in order: and oh—don’t put your pipe down there! I can’t endure the smell of smoke. I am very sorry that I am so sensitive, but neither I nor my dear sister can abide tobacco.”
Mr Starling slipped the pipe back into his pocket. “There!” said his sister-in-law, springing up. “It isn’t properly out, and will burn a hole, and then I shall have the trouble of mending it. You won’t consider things, Edward. You are so thoughtless. Oh, I am the very last person to complain, but what was I saying?”
“Talking about Robina. Is she home?”
“Home?” said Miss Jennings. “Yes; thank goodness, hours ago, and in bed and asleep.”
“I can’t take a peep at her, I suppose? How is the young monkey looking?”
“Whatever you do, Edward—don’t disturb her! She is such a queer, excitable creature.”
“She is well, I suppose?”
“Yes; that is—her body is; I am by no means sure about her mind.”
“Her mind?” said Starling. “Has anything gone wrong with that?”