Mrs. Challoner leaned back in her chair and put down her knitting:
“Are you sure, Harry? Then Adelaide was right: she told me in her last letter that Mrs. Ibbetson’s health was so bad that they thought of wintering at Hyeres, and that there was some talk of giving up the house.”
“Oh, yes, it is true,” he returned, carelessly; “Ibbetson told me so himself. It is a pretty little place enough, and they have done a good deal to it, even in a few months: they want to get off the lease, and rid themselves of the furniture, which seems to be all new. It appears they have had some money left to them unexpectedly; and now Mrs. Ibbetson’s health is so bad, he wants to try travelling, and thinks it a great pity to be hampered with a house at present. I should say the poor little woman is in a bad way, myself.”
“Dear me, how sad! And they have been married so short a time,—not more than six months. She comes of a weakly stock, I fear. I always said she looked consumptive, poor thing! Dear little Glen Cottage! and to think it will change hands so soon again!”
“You seem fond of it, Aunt Catherine,” for her tone was full of regret.
“My dear,” she answered, seriously, “I always loved that cottage so! The drawing-room and the garden were just to my taste; and then the girls were so happy there.”
“Would you not like a grander house to live in?” he asked, in the same indifferent tone. “I do not think it is half good enough for you and the girls.”
Mrs. Challoner opened her eyes rather widely at this: but his voice gave her no clue to his real meaning, and she thought it was just his joking way with her.
“It would seem a palace after this!” she returned, with a sigh. “Somehow, I never cared for great big houses, they are so much expense to keep up; and when one has not a man in the house––”
“Why, you have me, Aunt Catherine!” speaking up rather briskly.