Plainly this was Nigel's object. He was a very boy again in the next half-hour, helping Daisy to balance chestnuts on the hot bars, watching for the critical moment of "done enough and not too much," using Daisy's fingers in pretence, and scorching his own in reality. He and Daisy were down on the rug together, and shouts of laughter sounded, when Mrs. Browning came with her soft lagging step and sweet graciousness.
"I have persuaded your father to take a cup of tea with us here," she said to the group. "He is very sad to-day, but he liked to hear your merry voices, and indeed he proposed it himself. It is such weather, we shall have no callers."
"Don't stop laughing, pray, when he appears," whispered Fulvia; and they did not, but the real ring of mirth was gone.
Mr. Browning's heavy steps and down-drawn mouth-comers were not provocative of fun. He looked both ill and wretched.
Fulvia was the first to spring up in welcome. She gave him a daughterly kiss, made him sit in the chair she had occupied, chatted about weather and chestnuts, tried to make it seem that nothing was further from her thoughts than the remembrance of her own age.
Mr. Browning seemed relieved, and he even smiled dimly at one or two of Nigel's sallies.
"Hallo, Daisy! That fellow's rolling! He'll be gone!"
"Oh! Oh! I'm burning my fingers. What shall I do? He's done for—black as a coal."
"Never mind; we've plenty more! You are getting your face a most awful colour, my dear. Look at Anice."
"Anice has a complexion, and I've none. Can't take care of what I haven't got. I say—what are you after? Is that for me? Thanks. And Fulvie would like another. Don't you care for chestnuts, father?"