“How do, Vining—how do?” cried a little pudgy man, appearing at the window, but hardly visible beside his lady—Mrs Bray in more ways than one eclipsing her lord. “How do? How’s Sir Philip?”
“Quite well, thanks; but not coming in,” cried Charley, from his horse’s back. “Miss Bray and some lady caught in the rain—under tree—bad shelter—want the brougham.”
“Dear me, how tiresome!” screamed Mrs Bray. “But must we send it, Ness?”
Mr Bray, named at his baptism Onesimus, replied by stroking his cheek and looking thoughtfully at his lady.
“The rain’s about over now, and they might surely walk,” shrieked Mrs Bray. “Dudgeon grumbles so, too, when he has to go out like this, and he was ordered for two o’clock.”
“Better send, my dear,” whispered Mr Bray, with a meaning look. “Vining won’t like it if you don’t.”
Mrs Bray evidently approved of her husband’s counsel; for orders were given that the brougham should be in immediate readiness.
“They won’t be long,” she now screamed, all smiles once more. “But do come in and have some lunch, Mr Vining: don’t sit there in your wet clothes.”
“No—no. I’m all right,” cried Charley. “I’m off again directly.”
But for all that, he lingered.