“Nothing about the rectory, my dear⁠—nothing,” said Mr. Brooke, rising to go away, and putting out his hand to his nieces: “nor about his researches, you know. Nothing in the will.”

Dorothea’s lip quivered.

“Come, you must not think of these things yet, my dear. By-and-by, you know.”

“I am quite well now, uncle; I wish to exert myself.”

“Well, well, we shall see. But I must run away now⁠—I have no end of work now⁠—it’s a crisis⁠—a political crisis, you know. And here is Celia and her little man⁠—you are an aunt, you know, now, and I am a sort of grandfather,” said Mr. Brooke, with placid hurry, anxious to get away and tell Chettam that it would not be his ( Mr. Brooke’s) fault if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.