‘He was very grateful to you for your kindness, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Renton, who, though she could talk herself upon occasions, was fairly overflooded and carried away by this flowing current of speech. ‘Oh, grateful,--no!; said Mrs. Rich; ‘that word would be quite misapplied. It is we who should be grateful to him,--a young man accustomed to the best society,--for putting up with a family party. And your other son, Mrs. Renton, is delightful too. We met him in town. He took us to a friend of his, Mr. Suffolk, the painter, where Mr. Rich bought a most lovely picture. I should ask you to go up to the music-room and look at it but for the stairs. It is a trial going up so many stairs. Yes, we have done a great deal to the house. It must be strange to you, coming to call at a house you once knew so well. But, as Mr. Rich says, it is not our fault. We gave a very good price for it; and, if we had not bought it, some one else would. My husband has laid out a great deal of money upon it. He has excellent taste, everybody says; and, of course, being well off, he does not need to consider every penny, as, unfortunately, so many excellent people have to do. You would be pleased if you saw the music-room,--quite a fine domestic chapel they tell us. We have hung Mr. Suffolk’s picture there. If you are fond of pictures----’ ‘Oh, thanks! but I am not able to move about and look at things as I used to be,’ cried Mrs. Renton, in alarm. ‘To be sure,’ said her anxious hostess; ‘I ought to have thought of that. You will take a cup of tea? It is so refreshing after a long drive. Your son is quite a painter, I know, and so is my daughter. I tell her I cannot tell where she has got it, for we neither of us could draw a line to save our lives, neither her father nor me.’ Thus Mrs. Rich fluttered on, more fluent than ever, probably in consequence of her agitation. She was anxious to show herself at her best to her visitor, and the consequence was that Mrs. Renton went away sadly fatigued, and with a sensation of pity for Frank. ‘I never could get a word in,’ she said, indignantly, when she found herself safely ensconced once more in the corner of the carriage. ‘Mary, have you some eau-de-Cologne? I feel as if I were good for nothing but to go to sleep.’ ‘Then go to sleep, dear godmamma,’ said Mary, soothingly; ‘don’t mind me; I have plenty to think about, and I am sure you are tired. But Miss Rich is not so heavy as her mother,’ she added, conscientiously. Her heart compelled her to do justice to Nelly, but it was against the grain.