Mr. Witt's Widow Part 23

"I don't choose to hear a friend run down for nothing," declared Laura.

"A friend? How very chivalrous you are! Come, Maud dear."

"Good-bye, Laura," said Maud. "I'm sure you'll be sorry when you come to think."

"No, I shan't. I----"

"There!" said Isabel. "I do not care to be insulted any more."

The two visitors swept out, and Laura was left alone. Whereupon she began to cry. "I do hate that sort of vulgarity," said she, mopping her eyes. "I don't believe he ever thought----"

Mrs. Pocklington entered in urbane majesty. "Well, is Isabel pleased with her little man?" she asked. "Why, child, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Laura.

"You're crying."

"No, I'm not. Those girls have been horrid."

"What about?"

"Oh, the engagement, and----"

"And what?"

"And poor Mr. Neston--George Neston."

"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."