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"We had no idea of it ourselves till to-day." A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections grew intense. "You are going to London?" he asked mechanically. "Not at first. I hardly know. I think we shall be for some time with friends at Southampton." "Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of Sir Edward Mull; he married a niece of mine."
During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of interest in the "place in Lincolnshire." Her experiments proved that it needed but a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's favourite topic practically inexhaustible.
Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew not what. Then again came a blank in the dialogue. "I trust we may meet again," was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. It cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about. "There is no foreseeing. I we I am sorry to say my father has brought us rather unpleasant news."
Yet such were the outlines of Mr. Musselwhite's history. Had he been the commonplace spendthrift, one knows pretty well on what lines his subsequent life would have run; but poor Mr. Musselwhite was at heart a domestic creature.
Musselwhite's place at table was next to Barbara Denyer. So long as Miss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour's reminiscences, all went well between them. Barbara condescended to show interest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent questions; she smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening to the three stories.
Musselwhite was slowly rising. "Let us take some one else's opinion," said the mother. "I wonder what Mr. Musselwhite would say?" The mention of his name caused him to turn his head, half absently, with an inquiring smile. Barbara withdrew a step, but Mrs. Denyer, in the most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite's judgment on the portraits under discussion.
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