“Yes, he has a fine estate, and he is said to be rich; but he is not as popular as his father was. I remember old Mr. Sefton, a splendid gentleman. But this Mr. Sefton and my father get on very well together.”
“You say he has been kind. How kind?”
“He asks my father to shooting parties, and he sends us game, and grapes, and pines. I would rather for my own part that he didn’t, for we can give him nothing in return. Sophy wanted to work him a pair of slippers—preposterous—as if he were a curate! My two nursery sisters offered to make him a set of mats in Russian cross-stitch. Imagine sending Mr. Sefton mats for his toilet table.”
“He scarcely looks the kind of man to appreciate that particular form of attention. Tivett, now, would be delighted with such a gift. There is nothing too microscopic or too feminine to interest that dear little man.”
“He is a dear little man. It is quite delightful to hear him talk about London people and London parties.”
“Did he set you longing to be in the whirl of a London season?”
“I don’t know. It would be very nice, for once in one’s life; but I am quite happy in our country home, as long as—as,” she faltered a little, “father is well and contented.”
He felt that in this faltering phrase there was a hint of domestic cares. Hubert Hartley had told him, during a few minutes’ talk on the omnibus, that Colonel Marchant was something of a Bohemian, and a difficult man to get on with.
“I always feel sorry for those five girls of his,” Sir Hubert concluded.
“You are wise in liking your country life,” said Vansittart. “It is the happier life. All my best days are at Merewood—our place near Liss. Do you know Liss, by-the-by?”