"You are not so young yourself, Robert," she remarked tartly.
"Nay, granny dear, I do not seek the last word with you," he laughed. "'Tis only that I would find out before we sleep how I may be of aid to Master Ormerod."
"Aid?" quoth she. "All that we have in the world is his, if he wants it; aye, the clothes off our backs."
She swept me another curtsey, deeper than ever—just such a one, I fancy, as she made to my mother when she brought her the housekeeper's keys.
"Good night to you, Master Ormerod. And remember, this house, poor though it be for your father's son, is to be your home until you have a better."
I rose and bowed my acknowledgments, but I could not speak. My heart was too full. Here in this bleak, unfriendly London, which had greeted me with suspicion and persecution, I had found friendship and assistance. My fortunes, at ebb an hour before, now seemed about to flow toward a happier future. It was almost too good to believe.
"I have no claim upon you, Master Juggins," I exclaimed as the door closed behind his grandmother. "Remember that. And let me not imperil for one moment two friends of my father, who revere his memory as I had not supposed any did, save myself."
He pushed me down into my chair by the fire.
"There is no question of claim, sir. 'Tis a privilege. Now do you set this glass to your lips. How tastes it?"
"Most excellent. In France they must spice their mulled drinks to make them palatable. No need to add aught to good, ripe English ale."