It was Mrs. Brande’s birthday, and Mrs. Brande’s birthday had not been forgotten by her friends. There were cards, letters, and little presents from some of the “boys,” a lovely sachel from Honor (secretly manufactured as a surprise), bouquets, an exquisite silver lamp from Mark Jervis, which she remarked to Honor “must have cost the poor boy a frightful sum!”—last, not least, a silver photograph-frame, with “Ben’s respects.”
Mrs. Brande’s face was radiant. She went straight up to Mark with her presents in her hands.
“It was too bad of you to buy me such a grand present, and just what I was longing for—and Ben. That was your idea too! Do you know that I have a great mind to give you a kiss,” she said threateningly.
Sweet, who was playing with her porridge, stiffened with expectation, and awaited further developments with a pair of enormous eyes.
But Mrs. Brande did not carry out her menace—no; she merely said—
“You are only a boy, and I’m an old lady. How old are you, by the way, eh? I must make a note of your birthday.”
“I was twenty-six last April.”
“Twenty-six! Why, you don’t look it by five years,” sitting down before the teapot and a pile of letters and little parcels which lay beside her plate.
“Pelham always gives me diamonds,” she went on, “but I have plenty; and, in case you might suppose he had forgotten me this time, he has given me a large cheque for the new Orphanage; so I have done splendidly.”
“Did you get any chocolates?” asked Sweet, anxiously.