She never bought a horse or sold a barrel of tobacco without his opinion.

There was a room at Castlewood regularly called Mr.Washington's room.

"He actually leaves his clothes here and his portmanteau when he goes away.

Ah! George, George! One day will come when he won't go away," groaned Mountain, who, of course, always returned to the subject of which she was forbidden to speak.

Meanwhile Mr.George adopted towards his mother's favourite a frigid courtesy, at which the honest gentleman chafed but did not care to remonstrate, or a stinging sarcasm, which he would break through as he would burst through so many brambles on those hunting excursions in which he and Harry Warrington rode so constantly together; whilst George, retreating to his tents, read mathematics, and French, and Latin, and sulked in his book-room more and more lonely.
Harry was away from home with some other sporting friends (it is to be feared the young gentleman's acquaintances were not all as eligible as Mr.Washington), when the latter came to pay a visit at Castlewood.