“Isn’t laughing a wholesome pastime?”

“Not when it is at those who ought to be looked up to.”

“Oh!  I’m not made to be looked up to.  I’m not going to be a hero to my valet de chambre, or to anybody else, my dear, if that’s what you want of me!”

Mary secretly hoped that a little more dignity would come in the London life, and was relieved when the time came for the move.  The new abode was a charming house, with the park behind it, and the space between nearly all glass.  Great ferns, tall citrons, fragrant shrubs, brilliant flowers, grew there; a stone-lined pool, with water-lilies above, gold-fish below, and a cool, sparkling, babbling fountain in the middle.  There was an open space round it, with low chairs and tables, and the parrot on her perch.  Indeed, Popinjay Parlour was the family title of this delightful abode; but it might almost as well have been called Mother Carey’s bower.  Here, after an audience with the housekeeper, who was even more overpowering than her Serene Highness, would Caroline retreat to write notes, keep accounts, and hear Armine’s lessons, secure before luncheon from all unnecessary interruption; and here was her special afternoon and evening court.

This first summer she was free to take her own course as to society, for Janet cared for the Cambridge examination far more than for gaiety, and thus she had no call, and no heart for “going out,” even if she had as yet been more known.  Some morning calls were exchanged, but she sent refusals on mourning cards to invitations to evening parties, though she took her young people to plays, concerts, and operas, and all that was pleasant.  Her young people included Jessie.  Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow made her a visit as soon as she was settled, and were so much edified by the absence of display and extravagance, that they did not scruple to trust their daughter to her for the long-desired music-lessons.

Caroline had indeed made no attempt to win her way into the great world; but she had brought together as much as possible of the old society of her former home.  On two evenings in the week, the habitues of Joe Brownlow’s house were secure of finding her either in the drawing-room or conservatory; beautiful things, and new books and papers on the tables, good music on the piano, sometimes acted charades, or paper games, according to the humour or taste of the party.  If she had been a beautiful duchess, Popinjay Parlour would have been a sort of salon bleu; but it was really a kind of paradise to a good many clever, hardworked men and women.  Those of the upper world, such as Kenminster county folks, old acquaintances of her husband, or natural adherents of Midas, who found their way to these receptions, either thought them odd but charming, or else regretted that Mrs. Brownlow should get such queer people together, and turn Hyde Corner House into another Folly.