"Those people" were always the Firs-Robinsons with Mrs. Greatorex. The fact that they could have bought her up a thousand times over at any moment rankled in her mind. She could not forgive them that.
Still in some queer way she hankered after the Robinsons— desiring to know this and that about them, and being, as has been hinted, of a parsimonious turn of mind, did not refrain from accepting from them fruits and flowers and vegetables. Indeed, face to face with them she was delightful. She justified herself over this hypocritical turn, and explained herself to Agatha, by quoting St. Paul. "All things to all men" was a motto of his.
"Richard?" questioned Agatha, as if surprised. Indeed, Mrs. Greatorex was perhaps the only person of his acquaintance who called Mr. Browne "Richard." "Dicky, you mean?"
"Yes, of course. He was christened Richard, Agatha. That ought to count. His father's name is Richard."
"It is so funny to think of Dicky's having a father," said Agatha, laughing. "What kind is he, auntie?"
"A mummy! A modern mummy," said Mrs. Greatorex, laying down her sock. "A dandified mummy. All paint and wig and teeth—-"
"But a mummy! It wouldn't have—-"
"Yes, I know. But there's nothing in him! Nothing that is his own. He is padded and stuffed and perfumed! He"—indignantly— "ought to have died ten years ago, and yet now he goes about the world rejuvenated yearly. Only last month I had a letter from a friend of mine, saying Richard's father had come back from the German spas describing himself as 'a giant refreshed.' Just fancy that, at seventy-eight!"
"I always feel I could love old Mr. Browne," said Agatha, laughing still.
"You must have precious little to love," said her aunt, knitting vigorously. She had known old Mr. Browne in her youth.