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In the house of Rodney there is mourning and woe. Horror has fallen upon it, and something that touches on disgrace. Lady Rodney, leaning back in her chair with her scented handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, sobs aloud and refuses to be comforted. "Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. "Mrs. Rodney would perhaps prefer to dance, mother," he says, with some irritation..
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"Well, really, you know, yes. I think there is something special about her," he says, feeling himself in duty bound to say something. "Well, Jack is home by this time, I suppose,—that's my second brother; at least he was expected yesterday; and Violet Mansergh is very often there; and as a rule, you know, there is always somebody; and that's all." "But at the same time I must ask you to remember you are speaking of my wife." "I used to stay there occasionally when old Lord Daintree was alive, if you mean that," says Nolly, meekly. "As far as I can recollect, I was always shipped there when naughty, or troublesome, or in the way at home; and as a rule I was always in the way. There is a connection between the Eatons and my mother, and Anadale saw a good deal of me off and on during the holidays. It was a sort of rod in pickle, or dark closet, that used to be held over my head when in disgrace.".
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