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Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale
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“Oh, poor George Neston. What did they say?”
“Isabel pretended he had been in love with her, and – and was in love with her, and that she had refused him.”
“Oh, and that made you cry?”
“No – not that – ”
“What, then?”
“Oh, please, mamma!”
Mrs. Pocklington smiled. “Stop crying, my dear. It used to suit me, but it doesn’t suit you. Stop, dear.”
“Very well, mamma,” said poor Laura, thinking it a little hard that she might not even cry.
“Did you cry before the girls?”
“No,” said Laura, with emphasis.
“Good child,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “Now, listen to me. You’re never to think of him again – ”
“Mamma!”
“Till I tell you.”
“Ah!”
“A tiresome, meddlesome fellow. Is your father in, Laura?”
“Yes, dear. Are you going to see him about – ?”
“Why, you’re as bad as Isabel!” said Mrs. Pocklington, with feigned severity, disengaging Laura’s arms from her neck. “He’s never asked you either!”
“No, dear; but – ”
“The vanity of these children! There, let me go; and for goodness’ sake, don’t be a cry-baby, Laura. Men hate water-bottles.”
Thus mingling consolation and reproof, Mrs. Pocklington took her way to her husband’s study.
“I want five minutes, Robert,” she said, sitting down.
“It’s worth a thousand pounds a minute, my dear,” said Mr. Pocklington, genially, laying down his pipe and his papers. “What with this strike – ”
“Strike!” said Mrs. Pocklington with indignation. “Why do you let them strike, Robert?”
“I can’t help it. They want more money.”
“Nonsense! They want to be taught their Catechisms. But I didn’t come to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t, my dear. Your views are refreshing.”
“Robert, Laura’s got a fancy in her head about young George Neston.”
“Oh!”
“‘Oh!’ doesn’t tell me much.”
“Well, you know all about him.”
“He’s a very excellent young man. Not rich.”
“A pauper?”
“No. Enough.”
“All right. If you’re satisfied, I am. But hasn’t he been making a fool of himself about some woman?”
“Really, Robert, how strangely you express yourself! I suppose you mean about Neaera Witt?”
“Yes, that’s it. I heard some rumour.”
“Heard some rumour! Of course you read every word about it, and gossiped over it at the Club and the House. Now, haven’t you?”
“Perhaps I have,” her husband admitted. “I think he’s a young fool.”
“Am I to consider it an obstacle?”
“Well, what do you think yourself?”
“It’s your business. Men know about that sort of thing.”
“Is the child – eh?”
“Yes, rather.”
“And he?”
“Oh, yes, or will be very soon, when he sees she is.”
“Poor little Lally!” said Mr. Pocklington. Then he sat and pondered. “It is an obstacle,” he said at last.
“Ah!” said his wife.
“He must put himself right.”
“Do you mean, prove what he says?”
“Well, at any rate, show he had good excuse for saying it.”
“Isabel pretended he had been in love with her, and – and was in love with her, and that she had refused him.”
“Oh, and that made you cry?”
“No – not that – ”
“What, then?”
“Oh, please, mamma!”
Mrs. Pocklington smiled. “Stop crying, my dear. It used to suit me, but it doesn’t suit you. Stop, dear.”
“Very well, mamma,” said poor Laura, thinking it a little hard that she might not even cry.
“Did you cry before the girls?”
“No,” said Laura, with emphasis.
“Good child,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “Now, listen to me. You’re never to think of him again – ”
“Mamma!”
“Till I tell you.”
“Ah!”
“A tiresome, meddlesome fellow. Is your father in, Laura?”
“Yes, dear. Are you going to see him about – ?”
“Why, you’re as bad as Isabel!” said Mrs. Pocklington, with feigned severity, disengaging Laura’s arms from her neck. “He’s never asked you either!”
“No, dear; but – ”
“The vanity of these children! There, let me go; and for goodness’ sake, don’t be a cry-baby, Laura. Men hate water-bottles.”
Thus mingling consolation and reproof, Mrs. Pocklington took her way to her husband’s study.
“I want five minutes, Robert,” she said, sitting down.
“It’s worth a thousand pounds a minute, my dear,” said Mr. Pocklington, genially, laying down his pipe and his papers. “What with this strike – ”
“Strike!” said Mrs. Pocklington with indignation. “Why do you let them strike, Robert?”
“I can’t help it. They want more money.”
“Nonsense! They want to be taught their Catechisms. But I didn’t come to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t, my dear. Your views are refreshing.”
“Robert, Laura’s got a fancy in her head about young George Neston.”
“Oh!”
“‘Oh!’ doesn’t tell me much.”
“Well, you know all about him.”
“He’s a very excellent young man. Not rich.”
“A pauper?”
“No. Enough.”
“All right. If you’re satisfied, I am. But hasn’t he been making a fool of himself about some woman?”
“Really, Robert, how strangely you express yourself! I suppose you mean about Neaera Witt?”
“Yes, that’s it. I heard some rumour.”
“Heard some rumour! Of course you read every word about it, and gossiped over it at the Club and the House. Now, haven’t you?”
“Perhaps I have,” her husband admitted. “I think he’s a young fool.”
“Am I to consider it an obstacle?”
“Well, what do you think yourself?”
“It’s your business. Men know about that sort of thing.”
“Is the child – eh?”
“Yes, rather.”
“And he?”
“Oh, yes, or will be very soon, when he sees she is.”
“Poor little Lally!” said Mr. Pocklington. Then he sat and pondered. “It is an obstacle,” he said at last.
“Ah!” said his wife.
“He must put himself right.”
“Do you mean, prove what he says?”
“Well, at any rate, show he had good excuse for saying it.”
Другие электронные книги автора Anthony Hope
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