This hit the old man hard. That bless and white foot had been his bane for many a day.
“Oompie mustn’t drive to church like that any longer,” said Carol decisively. “It is unlucky.”
“Ah! unlucky? I am unlucky enough,” glowered Oom Nick and reflected awhile in his beard while Carol drank more coffee and looked at Chrissie with his brown eyes which became very gentle and shy the moment he was not discussing horses. Chrissie inquired for his mother and sisters and brothers, naming each separately. Braddon tattooed the table, bored and vaguely irritated. At last, the old man got up and went down to the horses and began examining them minutely from mouth to hoof, jeering all the time and expostulating with Uys who had followed him.
The engineer and Chrissie left alone sat a long time in silence apparently listening to the haggling and jeering below them, but in reality listening to queer little drumlike sounds going on within themselves.
“May I bring you the photo when it is finished?” Braddon said at last in a low voice.
She laughed her little bubbling laugh.
“You see how it is with Poppa—he does not like the railway.”
He looked at her steadily.
“You mean I will not be welcome here?”
“Poppa will not welcome you,” said Chrissie with the Greuze look. “Have another cup of coffee?”