“To be a bit foolish” is a kindly, West of Ireland phrase which means to drink heavily.
“It’s not that,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “I don’t believe from what I’ve heard of him that the man has even that much in him. It’s just what his father says, poetry and nerves. And he’s coming here for the good of his health. It’s Mr. Bertram they call him, Mr. Bertram Connell.”
Mrs. MacDermott walked up and down the platform waiting for the arrival of her nephew’s train. She was dressed in a very becoming pale blue tweed and had wrapped a silk muffler of a rather brighter blue round her neck. Her brown shoes, though strong, were very well made and neat. Between them and her skirt was a considerable stretch of knitted stocking, blue like the tweed. Her ankles were singularly well-formed and comely. The afternoon had turned out to be fine and she had taken some trouble about her dress before setting out to meet a strange nephew whom she had not seen since he was five years old. She might have taken more trouble still if the nephew had been anything more exciting than a nerve-shattered poet.
The train steamed in at last. Only one passenger got out of a first-class carriage. Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in doubt. He was not in the least the sort of man she expected to see. Poets, so she understood, have long hair and sallow, clean-shaven faces. This young man’s head was closely-cropped and he had a fair moustache. He was smartly dressed in well-fitting clothes. Poets are, or ought to be, sloppy in their attire. Also, judged by the colour of his cheeks and his vigorous step, this man was in perfect health. Mrs. MacDermott approached him with some hesitation. The young man was standing in the middle of the platform looking around. His eyes rested on Mrs. MacDermott for a moment, but passed from her again. He was expecting someone whom he did not see.
“Are you Bertram Connell, by any chance?” asked Mrs. MacDermott.
“That’s me,” said the young man, “and I’m expecting an aunt to meet me. I say, are you a cousin? I didn’t know I had a cousin.”
The mistake was an excusable one. Mrs. MacDermott looked very young and pretty in her blue tweed. She appreciated the compliment paid her all the more because it was obviously sincere.
“You haven’t any cousins,” she said. “Not on your father’s side, anyway. I’m your aunt.”
“Aunt Nell!” he said, plainly startled by the information. “Great Scott! and I thought——”
He paused and looked at Mrs. MacDermott with genuine surprise. Then he recovered his self-possession. He put his arm round her neck and kissed her heartily, first on one cheek, then on the other.