"It is so pleasant to see an Oldchester face, is it not?" said Mrs. Bransby.
"Some Oldchester faces," returned Owen, laughing. Then he said, "Well, Enid, have you not a word to say to me? Won't you come and give me a kiss?"
Miss Enid, who was a born coquette, and who was, moreover, greatly interested in Mr. Bragg's massive watch-chain and seal, replied with imperious brevity, "No; don't want to."
Mr. Bragg looked down gravely on the small creature, and then up at Owen, as he said—half shyly, and yet with a certain tinge of complacency, "Why, she would come and set on my knee, almost the first minute she saw me."
"Perhaps you had better get down, baby," said Mrs. Bransby. "I am afraid she may be troublesome."
"Troublesome? Lord, no! Why, I don't feel she's there, no more than a fly. Let her bide," said Mr. Bragg.
"Ah, I know what she is:—she's fickle," observed Owen, drawing up his chair.
"Not pickle!" declared Miss Enid, with great majesty.
"Yes, you are! False, fleeting, perjured Enid!" said Owen.
He was delighted to perceive that the little home and its inmates had evidently made a favourable impression on Mr. Bragg. Observing that gentleman in the new light of May's revelation, he saw something in his face which he had not seen there before:—a regretful, far-away look, whenever he was not speaking, or being spoken to. It was wonderfully strange, certainly, to think of him as May's wooer! And yet not absurd, as it had appeared at first. In Mr. Bragg's presence, the absurdity, somehow, vanished. The simplicity and reality of the man gave him dignity. Owen even began to feel something like a vague and respectful compassion for Mr. Bragg; and every now and then the peculiarity of their mutual position would come over him with a fresh sense of surprise.