“My dear,” said Mrs. Massarene with solemnity, “a man never thinks he is ridiculous. He says to himself, ‘I’m a man,’ and he gets a queer sort of comfort out of that as a baby does out of sucking its thumb.”
Katherine smiled absently.
“Does Lady Kenilworth ever speak of her brother—her eldest brother, Lord Hurstmanceaux?” she said in an embarrassed tone, which her mother did not observe.
“Yes; she says he’s a bear. She’s brought her brothers-in-law, and a good many of her relations, her ‘people,’ as she calls ’em, but her own brothers, none of ’em, ever.”
“This place belonged to her cousin.”
“Did it? I never knew anything about it. William came in one day and said: ‘I’ve bought a place in the shires. Go down there this afternoon.’ That was all. I was struck all of a heap when I saw it. And the housekeeper, who had stayed on to go over the inventory, drew herself up when she met me, stiff as stiff, and said to me, ‘I shall be glad if you will release me of my charge, madam. I have always lived with gentlefolks.’ Those were her very words, Kathleen. A fine set-up, glum-looking woman she was, dressed in black watered silk, and she went off the next morning, though we had offered her double her price to remain under us. That’s just, you know, what Gregson, the courier, said once; or rather, he said he wouldn’t live with gentlefolks because they was always out o’ pocket.”
Katherine moved restlessly: words rose to her lips which she repressed.
“And when I go in the village,” continued her mother, “there’s nothing but black looks and shut doors, and the very geese on the little common screech at me. The rector’s civil, of course, because he’s an eye to the main chance, but he’s the only one; and I’m afeard it’s mostly because he wants your father to give him a peal of bells. They seem to think your father should pay the National Debt!”
Katherine sighed.
“Poor mother! Que de couleuvres on vous fait avaler!”