I found time to manage such business affairs of Mr. Carvel’s as he could not attend to himself.  Grafton and his family dined in Marlboro’ Street twice in the week; my uncle’s conduct toward me was the very soul of consideration, and he compelled that likewise from his wife and his son.  So circumspect was he that he would have fooled one who knew him a whit less than I. He questioned me closely upon my studies, and in my grandfather’s presence I was forced to answer.  And when the rector came to dine and read to Mr. Carvel, my uncle catechised him so searchingly on my progress that he was pushed to the last source of his ingenuity for replies.  More than once was I tempted to blurt out the whole wretched business, for I well understood there was some deep game between him and Grafton.  In my uncle’s absence, my aunt never lost a chance for an ill-natured remark upon Patty, whom she had seen that winter at the assemblies and elsewhere.  And she deplored the state our people of fashion were coming to, that they allowed young girls without family to attend their balls.

“But we can expect little else, father,” she would say to Mr. Carvel nodding in his chair, “when some of our best families openly espouse the pernicious doctrines of republicanism.  They are gone half mad over that Wilkes who should have been hung before this.  Philip, dear, pour the wine for your grandfather.”

Miss Patty had been well received.  I took her to her first assembly, where her simple and unassuming ways had made her an instant favourite; and her face, which had the beauty of dignity and repose even so early in life, gained her ample attention.  I think she would have gone but little had not her father laughed her out of some of her domesticity.  No longer at Sunday night supper in Gloucester Street was the guest seat empty.  There was more than one guest seat now, and the honest barrister himself was the most pleased at the change.  As I took my accustomed place on the settle cushion,—­Patty’s first embroidery,—­he would cry: 

“Heigho, Richard, our little Miss Prim hath become a belle.  And I must have another clerk now to copy out my briefs, and a housekeeper soon, i’ faith.”

Patty would never fail to flush up at the words, and run to perch on her father’s knee and put her hand over his mouth.

“How can you, Mr. Swain?” says she; “how can you, when ’tis you and mother, and Richard here, who make me go into the world?  You know I would a thousand times rather bake your cakes and clean your silver!  But you will not hear of it.”

“Fie!” says the barrister.  “Listen to her, Richard!  And yet she will fly up the stairs to don a fine gown at the first rap of the knocker.  Oh, the wenches, the wenches!  Are they not all alike, mother?”

“They have changed none since I was a lass,” replies the quiet invalid, with a smile.  “And you should know what I was, Henry.”