“Last Saturday, and mighty glad to get back to a live place, too. Smoke?”
“Thank you. Bessie will be down in a minute.”
“How’s old Pink?”
“S-s-h! She’s all right. Don’t speak so confoundedly loud.”
“Ha, ha! I see how it is. By and by you won’t dare say your soul’s your own. I pity you, Charlie, upon my word I do. Ned Tupney was married a few days ago, did you know it? and he’s got a devil of a mother-in-law on his hands, a regular roarer—”
“Here comes my wife,” I broke in. “For Heaven’s sake, change the subject. Talk about roses!”
Bessie entered and exchanged a friendly greeting with Fred.
“I was telling Charlie about some wonderful roses I saw at Primton’s green-house,” said the unabashed visitor, and he forthwith laid aside his cigar—on the tablecloth!—and launched into a glowing description of the imaginary flowers.
Before he had finished, Mrs. Pinkerton entered much to my surprise. She bowed in a stately manner, inquired formally as to the state of Fred’s health, and as she took a seat I saw her glance take in that cigar.
Fred could talk exceedingly well when he was so disposed, and he entertained us excellently, I thought. He had seen a good deal of the world, was a close observer, and had the faculty of chatting in a fascinating way about subjects that would usually be called commonplace. He was pleased with the aspect of the cottage, and complimented it gracefully.