“Deah me, how appalling! Worse than a tea-party! I had no ideah men could be so dull. Nobody engaged? Nobody married? Nobody going to give a dance? No new people coming to live in the neighbourhood?”
“Ha!” Mr Rendell struck an attitude of remembrance, at which the watching faces brightened with smiles. “Yes, now I come to think of it, there was one little item of news. I forgot all about it; but you will be interested, no doubt. The Grange is sold!”
The expression of curiosity on his daughters’ faces was exchanged for one of blank amazement. Even his wife gave a start of surprise, and turned towards him with eager inquiry.
“Let! Really let, Alfred? You don’t mean it?”
“So I am told.”
“We’ve been told so so often that one grows sceptical. Is it really and truly sold, and the deeds signed? I sha’n’t believe it unless they are, for difficulties have cropped up so often at the last moment. Are you quite sure this time?”
“As sure as it is possible to be about anything in this wicked world. Braithwaite tells me it’s an accomplished fact. The deeds are signed, and the workmen are to begin putting the house in order next week. You may take it as settled this time, for the man really means to come. He is a certain Ernest Vanburgh by name, and has been living abroad for some years.”
“And is there a Mrs Vanburgh, and has he any children, and are they young or grown up?”
“Is he a dull sort of man, or will he be hospitable, and give dinners and parties and help to make the place lively?”
“Is he musical, father, because there’s that lovely big room where we could have such charming musical evenings?”