The Dowager had retired to her own den, where she occupied a great portion of her life in writing prosy letters to her relatives and connections of all degrees; but as she never sent them anything else, this was her only way of maintaining the glow of family feeling.
“The black nearly pulled my fingers off,” replied Harrington. “I never knew him so fresh.”
“You should have taken it out of him on the downs,” answered Juliet, rather contemptuously. “The grass is all right after the thaw. Have you brought me what you so kindly promised?”
He took a sealed envelope out of his breast-pocket and handed it to her.
“Is this the fifty? How quite too good of you!” she cried, pocketing it hastily. “You don’t know what a difficulty you have got me out of; but I’m afraid I may have inconvenienced you.”
This was evidently an afterthought.
“‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’” quoted Harrington, with a sentimental air.
“How sweet!” exclaimed Juliet, really touched by his affection; yet she would rather he had told her that fifty pounds was a sum of no consequence, and that so small a loan involved no inconvenience for him.
“I’m afraid his father can hardly be as rich as people think,” she said to herself, while Harrington relaxed his strained muscles before the fire.
“How I wish you were not going to Medlow!” he said presently.