Jack shrank into his corner and watched the wreaths of steam fly on against the dark.
“What’s the use of being all grandpa’ was?” he thought. “Mammy’ll always be bullying.”
Jack had seen his grandfather omnipotent, deferred to by everybody, and independent in all actions; why did not these privileges descend with the dukedom to himself?
“You’re a minor, Jack,” one of his aunts had said to him, but the word had only confused him. He thought it meant a man who worked underground with a pickaxe and a safety-lamp as he had seen them drawn in instructive books.
“Harry’ll tell me all I can do,” he thought; and comforted by that thought he fell asleep like his brother.
“I can see no one,” she said to her groom of the chambers the next morning in Stanhope Street.
“No exceptions, your Grace?” asked that functionary, his mind reverting to Brancepeth.
“None,” she answered curtly—“at least only Gregge.”
This gentleman waited on her and bore himself with a manner that expressed his wounded feelings at not having been sent for into the country.
“Never mind that,” she said impatiently. “They don’t like you, you know, because you give me good advice, and they think it bad; I want you to tell me what rights I have.”