Maria, as her custom was, thanked God for being so virtuous and clever, and graciously admitted Mrs. and Miss Mackenzie into the circle of adorers of that supreme virtue and talent. Mr. Newcome took little Rosey and her mother to some parties. When any took place in Bryanstone Square, they were generally allowed to come to tea.
When on the second day of his arrival the dutiful Clive went to dine with Mr. James, the ladies, in spite of their raptures at his return and delight at seeing him, were going in the evening to his aunt. Their talk was about the Princess all dinner-time. The Prince and Princess were to dine in Bryanstone Square. The Princess had ordered such and such things at the jeweller’s—the Princess would take rank over an English Earl’s daughter—over Lady Anne Newcome, for instance. “Oh, dear! I wish the Prince and Princess were smothered in the Tower,” growled James Binnie; “since you have got acquainted with ’em I have never heard of anything else.”
Clive, like a wise man, kept his counsel about the Prince and Princess, with whom we have seen that he had had the honour of an interview that very day. But after dinner Rosey came round and whispered to her mamma, and after Rosey’s whisper mamma flung her arms round Rosey’s neck and kissed her, and called her a thoughtful darling. “What do you think this creature says, Clive?” says Mrs. Mack, still holding her darling’s little hand. “I wonder I had not thought of it myself.”
“What is it, Mrs. Mackenzie?” asks Clive, laughing.
“She says why should not you come to your aunt’s with us? We are sure Mrs. Newcome would be most happy to see you.”
Rosey, with a little hand put to mamma’s mouth, said, “Why did you tell?—you naughty mamma! Isn’t she a naughty mamma, Uncle James?” More kisses follow after this sally, of which Uncle James receives one with perfect complacency: mamma crying out as Rosey retires to dress, “That darling child is always thinking of others—always!”
Clive says, “he will sit and smoke a cheroot with Mr. Binnie, if they please.” James’s countenance falls. “We have left off that sort of thing here, my dear Clive, a long time,” cries Mrs. Mackenzie, departing from the dining-room.
“But we have improved the claret, Clive, my boy!” whispers Uncle James. “Let us have another bottle, and we will drink to the dear Colonel’s good health and speedy return—God bless him! I say, Clive, Tom seems to have had a most fortunate escape out of Winter’s house—thanks to our friend Rummun Loll, and to have got into a capital good thing with this Bundelcund bank. They speak famously of it at Hanover Square, and I see the Hurkara quotes the shares at a premium already.”
Clive did not know anything about the Bundelcund bank, except a few words found in a letter from his father, which he had in the City this morning, “and an uncommonly liberal remittance the governor has sent me home, sir.” Upon which they fill another bumper to the Colonel’s health.
Mamma and Rosey come and show their pretty pink dresses before going to Mrs. Newcome’s, and Clive lights a cigar in the hall—and isn’t there a jubilation at the Haunt when the young fellow’s face appears above the smoke-clouds there?