Percival, she with the lady, obtained the terms of
a settlement. Sanchia was to be allowed a hundred a year--for the present.
(Mr. Percival intended privately to make it two.) Everything was to be
assumed in her favour; but she was not to be asked to meet company.
Neither Mrs. Percival nor Philippa could be brought to that, and Mr.
Percival, so far as he was concerned, had no desire for any sort of
company but hers. He was one of those men made rosy-gilled for happiness.
Good fellowship, the domestic affections--if they were not there, they
must appear to be. His friends of the city were always on his lips--Old
Tom Peters--Old Jack Summers--Old Bob--Old Dick. Good fellows every one.
All the pet names in the family had been his. To him belonged Pippa and
Sancie, Melot and Vicky. "My girls," or "My rascals," he used to call them
to Tom Peters or Jack Summers, and bring them home jerky little tin
pedestrians from the city, or emus pulling little carts; or (later on)
bowls of goldfish or violet nosegays from Covent Garden. If he had a
nearer passion, it was to stand well with all the world. That's two
passions, however, to his score; and the struggle between them, in
Sanchia's case, had taken him as near tragedy as the easy man could go.
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