Mrs. Fennell was sitting in her drawing-room with only her second-best cap on, and with less than her second-best temper. If she had known he was coming she would have received him with a very different state, and she was mortified by her unpreparedness. Also her dinner was ready. As for Mr. Brownlow, he was not thinking of dinners. He had something on his mind, and it was his object to conceal that he had any thing on his mind--a matter less difficult to a man of his profession than to ordinary mortals. But what he said was that he was anxious chiefly to know if his mother-in-law was comfortable, and if she had every thing according to her desires.
Mrs. Fennell smiled at this inquiry. She smiled, but she rushed into a thousand grievances. Her lodgings were not to her mind, nor her position. Sara, the little puss, had carriages when she pleased, but her grandmamma never had any conveyance at her disposal to take the air in. And the people of the house were very inattentive, and Nancy--but here the old woman, who was clever, put a sudden stop to herself and drew up and said no more. She knew that to complain of Nancy would be of no particular advantage to her, for Mr. Brownlow was not fond of old Mrs. Thomson’s maid, and was as likely as not to propose that she should be pensioned and sent away.
“I have told you before,” said Mr. Brownlow, “that the brougham should be sent down for you when you want to go out if you will only let me know in time. What Sara has is nothing--or you can have a fly; but it is not fit weather for you to go out at your age.”
“You are not so very young yourself, John Brownlow,” said the old lady, with a little offense.
“No indeed--far from it--and that is what makes me think,” he said abruptly; and then made a pause which she did not understand, referring evidently to something in his own mind. “Did you ever know any body of the name of Powys in the Isle of Man?” he resumed, with a certain nervous haste, and an effort which brought heat and color to his face.
“Powys!” said Mrs. Fennell. “I’ve heard the name; but I think it was Liverpool-ways and not in the Isle of Man. It’s a Welsh name. No; I never knew any Powyses. Do you?”
“It was only some one I met,” said Mr. Brownlow, “who had relations in the Isle of Man. Do you know of any body who married there and left? Knowing that you came from that quarter, somebody was asking me.”