“If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,” motioned Mrs. Greggory. “I don't like to—with these,” she explained, tapping the crutches at her side.
With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.
“Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thing—the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray—did you notice?” he exulted, turning back to the shelf. “You don't see that every day! They get separated, most generally, you know.”
“These pieces have been in our family for generations,” said Mrs. Greggory with an accent of pride. “You'll find them quite perfect, I think.”
“Perfect! I should say they were,” cried the man.
“They are, then—valuable?” Mrs. Greggory's voice shook.
“Indeed they are! But you must know that.”
“I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in their association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir.” Again her voice broke.
William Henshaw cleared his throat.
“But, madam, if you do not wish to sell—” He stopped abruptly. His longing eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china.