“Certainly, with great pleasure,” said their father, pleased to be thus entreated; “but you must let me go now.”
“It is not summer to madame to-night,” whispered Tessie, laughing.
“We will invite her to our party, and that will comfort her,” said her sister, and then she went upstairs to give private instructions to the boys’ maid, that they were not to be put to bed at their usual early hour.
Mrs Ascot did not honour them with her presence, but the party was very successful notwithstanding. Mr and Mrs Vane were becoming quite indifferent to each other by this time; that is to say, no part of the happiness of either was of the other’s giving. Mrs Vane was long past resenting the open indifference that had hurt her so much at first, and her husband never brought so much brightness with him in his brief visits, as to cause her to regret his absence very bitterly. She had quite resigned herself to the knowledge that it could not be otherwise now.
Still they had one interest in common. They cared for their children, each in a different way, and took a little pleasure in each other’s society when their children were with them. Mr Vane was not a fond father, but his children were pretty and bright, and he had the selfish man’s satisfaction in the possession of what other people admired. They were fond of him, and not in the least afraid of him. He never reproved or punished them, and was rarely impatient with them, for they were never long enough in his presence to weary him, or to interfere in any way with his comfort. So when the girls welcomed him to the drawing-room, he was quite prepared to enjoy an hour or two with them.
They all enjoyed it. They had much to say for awhile, and then they danced and sang, that is, the little boys danced with Tessie, and then they all sang, and doubtless a much larger and more discriminating audience would have been delighted with this part of the entertainment; for they all had sweet voices, especially Selina, and her sisters had been well taught; and two hours passed away very quickly, Mr Vane thought.
After the little boys went to bed, the conversation somehow turned again on the subject of Frederica’s young-ladyhood, and she once more suggested the question whether she had not learned “enough of things,” and whether it was not time that she were leaving school.
“For indeed, papa, I have gone through all the books the girls ever go through at Mrs Glencairn’s, and she has given me quite new books lately, French history, and a book about animals; but I could read these just as well at home.”
“How very clever you must be!” said her father.
“No, papa, not particularly clever? at least, cleverness has nothing to do with it. But you know their French takes the other girls for ever to learn, and French is nothing to us who speak it at home. So I have just the dictation now, and learning poetry and easy things like that. Indeed, I think it is just wasting money for me to go longer to school,” added she, instinctively feeling that that argument her father might be brought to consider.