In one corner stood a rockery, where a fountain played and
goldfish swam in a basin. The house itself, of brick and two-storeyed,
with massive bay-windows, had an ornamental verandah on one side. The
drawing-room was a medley of gilt and lustres, mirrors and glass shades;
the finest objects from Dandaloo had been brought here, only to be
outdone by Henry's own additions. Yes, Ocock lived in grand style
nowadays, as befitted one of the most important men in the town. His old
father once gone--and Mahony alone knew why the latter's existence
acted as a drag--he would no doubt stand for Parliament.
Invited to walk into the breakfast-room, Mahony there found the family
seated at table. It was a charming scene. Behind the urn Mrs. Henry, in
be-ribboned cap and morning wrapper, dandled her infant; while Henry, in
oriental gown and Turkish fez, had laid his newspaper by to ride his
young son on his foot. Mahony refused tea or coffee; but could not avoid
drawing up a chair, touching the peachy cheeks of the children held
aloft for his inspection, and meeting a fire of playful sallies and
kindly inquiries. As he did so, he was sensitively aware that it fell to
him to break up the peace of this household. Only he knew the canker
that had begun to eat at its roots.
The children borne off, Mrs. Henry interrogated her husband's pleasure
with a pretty: "May I?" or "Should I?" lift of the brows; and gathering
that he wished her to retire, laid her small, plump hand in Mahony's,
sent a graceful message to "dearest Mary," and swept the folds of her
gown from the room.
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