When he had lighted the pipe, and smoked about half-a-dozen whiffs with a
great assumption of coolness, he addressed himself to his daughter in an
altered and conciliating tone.
"Well, Nelly," he said, "you've had a rare day at Wyncomb, and a regular
ramble over the old house with Steph's cousin. What do you think of it?"
"I think it's a queer gloomy old place enough, father. I wonder there's
any one can live in it. The dark bare-looking rooms gave me the horrors.
I used to think this house was dull, and seemed as if it was haunted; but
it's lively and gay as can be, compared to Wyncomb."
"Humph!" muttered the bailiff. "You're a fanciful young lady, Miss Nell,
and don't know a fine substantial old house when you see one. Life's come
a little too easy to you, perhaps. It might have been better for you if
you'd seen more of the rough side. Being your own missus too soon, and
missus of such a place as this, has spoiled you a bit. I tell you, Nell,
there ain't a better house in Hampshire than Wyncomb, though it mayn't
suit your fanciful notions. Do you know the size of Stephen Whitelaw's
farm?"
"No, father; I've never thought about it."
"What do you say to three hundred acres--over three hundred, nigher to
four perhaps?"
"I suppose it's a large farm, father. But I know nothing about such
things.
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