“No,” said Mrs Hallett, “no. I am sorry we have not a better place to receive him in.”
“Tut—tut, dear,” said Mr Hallett. “Antony Grace comes to see us, not our rooms or our furniture.”
I had already glanced round the large, old-fashioned room, which was shabbily furnished, but scrupulously clean, while everything was in good taste, and I hastened to say something about how glad I was to come.
“Yes,” said Mrs Hallett wearily; “it is very polite and nice of you to say so, but it is not the home I expected for my old age.”
“My mother is—”
“You always used to call me mamma, Stephen,” said Mrs Hallett, with the tears in her eyes.
“Did I love you any more tenderly then, dear?” he said, bending over her and kissing her wrinkled forehead with reverent affection, and then placing his lips upon her hand.
“No, Stephen, no,” she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing; “but—but we might cling to some of our old respectability, even if you will persist in being a workman and lowering our family by wearing aprons like a common man.”
“There, there, dear, don’t fret,” he said cheerfully. “You are in pain this morning. I am going for a walk with Antony Grace, and we’ll bring you back a bunch of flowers.”
“No, no, don’t—pray don’t, Stephen,” said Mrs Hallett querulously; “you cannot afford it, and it only puts me in mind of happier days, when we had our own garden, and I was so fond of my conservatory. You remember the camellias?”