Mrs. Early was just starting for Upper Thames Street when they arrived at Brunswick Terrace, and she rushed to the hall on hearing her husband's voice. As soon as she and her cousin set eyes on one another there was a double shriek.
"Babs!"
"Tops!"
Kisses, endearing epithets, squeezes, playful pats; more kisses, questions—numberless questions. George looked on in gloomy silence.
"You darling scrumptious old Tops!"
"You precious pet! you old Babs!"
More embraces, kisses, and squeezes.
"Keep it up," said George, in a bitter aside to the hatstand; "never mind the husband. What does it matter if I've been harried about the country by a lot of low ruffians, chased from one place to another, bandaged and made a madman? What does it matter, eh?" he repeated, looking hard at a barometer that pointed to "very dry."
"Very dry," said George, noticing it; "suppose I'm very dry, what of that? What of it? What does it matter?" raising his voice.
Mrs. Early suddenly tore herself from the embrace of her cousin, and threw her arms about her husband's neck.