Day after day they passed together, evening after evening they spent, talking in the moonlight or across the tea-table; but the more Phemie saw of Basil and his wife, the more wretched she felt satisfied they were.
Georgina had not found the game all profit, and was disappointed in some way. Basil did not care for the woman he had married, and took no pains to conceal that the only creature for whom he now lived, and moved, and had his being, was Harry, his son and heir, whom his mother spoiled past redemption, and encouraged in all acts of disobedience and rebellion, possibly to annoy his father.
As for the little girl, she went to the wall entirely; neither father nor mother seemed to recognise her as belonging to the same species as Master Harry, who was for ever up to some mischief, and being perpetually called to account for his misdeeds by Basil, who “snubbed the child,” so said his wife.
“And I do hope,” exclaimed Georgina, when the day of separation came at last, “that you will come and spend a long time with me in Norfolk. It would be a real charity, for Basil is scarcely ever in the house. He leaves me alone from morning till night. Now do come, will you?”
“Do you really wish me to come, Georgina?” asked Mrs. Stondon, who had latterly begun to doubt whether she heard and saw correctly. “Are you speaking honestly and truly, when you say you wish I would do so?”
“Honestly and truly, and there is my hand on it,” laughed Georgina.
“And your husband?”
“Oh! my husband must answer for himself. I never presume to understand what may be the state of Basil’s mind on any subject. If you wish him to invite you also, I will ask him to write you a letter requesting the honour, et cetera; but I should have thought my invitation sufficient. You are such a great lady now, though, there is no knowing how to deal with you.”
“I will come,” answered Phemie, suddenly, “sometime in the autumn, when the trees are looking their best.”
“That is a dear good creature,” remarked Mrs. Basil Stondon, mentally adding, “now that will drive Mrs. Montague away; and if I once get her out of the house, I will take precious good care she never enters it again.”