“You’d better let me carry that umbrella if you are going to bring it down thump at every step like that,” said Keziah.
“No, thank you, I can manage it,” said Peter, as, tucking it once more beneath his arm, he trotted on by her side, trying to make up his mind how he should find out the truth of his suspicions.
“It only wants a little looking into,” said Peter to himself, “and then you can find out anything. I can see it all now. And do they think they are going to deceive me? No, I’ve boiled down and purified too much not to be able to separate the wrong from the right. She’s going to ask him if he means to marry her instead of Miss Richards, and if he don’t, she’ll fall back on me. But she won’t, for I don’t mean to be fallen on, and so I tell her.”
“Here we are,” said Keziah, stopping short in front of Mr Brough’s house.
“Yes, here we are,” said Peter, with what he meant for a searching look.
“Now, look here, Peter,” said Keziah, “I’m going to see Mr Brough, and you’ll wait outside till I come back.”
“But what are you going for?” said Peter.
There was no reply save what was conveyed in a hitch of Keziah’s shawl, and then, her summons being responded to, she entered, leaving Peter perspiring on the door-step, brandishing the great umbrella and peering at the door with eyes that threatened to pierce the wood—varnish, paint, and all.
Meanwhile, Keziah was ushered into the room where Tom Brough was seated, rosy and hearty, over his decanter and glass.
“Well, Keziah,” he said, “and how are all at home? Take a chair.”