“No . . . I’m not a doctor. I’m in business. I’m a chemist.”
“I knew it was something of the kind. You needn’t speak so loud. And they told me you had married. I suppose this is your boy. A fine boy, surely. He has a look of your grandfather.” . . .
“Yes, this is Edwin.”
“I don’t remember that name in our family. It sounds like a fanciful name. Come here, my dear, and let me look at you.”
Edwin went to her, and she kissed him. Her face was so cold and smooth that she might almost have been dead.
“And how is your dear wife, John?”
“I’ve had a terrible blow, Aunt Lydia. I’ve lost her.”
“Ah . . . that was bad for you, and bad for the boy, too.”
“I shall never get over it.” Mr. Ingleby’s voice trembled.
“Yes, of course, you say that. It’s natural that you should. You’re young. But when you live to be as old as I am you’ll know better. You will get over it. When a few years have gone by you’ll marry again.”