When Fitzroy,who was in his little study,which opens into his little dining-room--one of those absurd little rooms which ought to be called a gentleman's pantry,and is scarcely bigger than a shower-bath,or a state cabin in a ship--when Fitzroy heard his mother-in-law's knock,and her well-known scuffling and chattering in the passage--in which she squeezed up young Buttons,the page,while she put questions to him regarding baby,and the cook's health,and whether she had taken what Mrs.Gashleigh had sent overnight,and the housemaid's health,and whether Mr.Timmins had gone to chambers or not--and when,after this preliminary chatter,Buttons flung open the door,announcing--"Mrs.Gashleigh and the young ladies,"Fitzroy laid down his Times newspaper with an expression that had best not be printed here,and took his hat and walked away.
Mrs.Gashleigh has never liked him since he left off calling her mamma,and kissing her.But he said he could not stand it any longer--he was hanged if he would.So he went away to chambers,leaving the field clear to Rosa,mamma,and the two dear girls.
Or to one of them,rather:for before leaving the house,he thought he would have a look at little Fitzroy up stairs in the nursery,and he found the child in the hands of his maternal aunt Eliza,who was holding him and pinching him as if he had been her guitar,Isuppose;so that the little fellow bawled pitifully--and his father finally quitted the premises.