“No, no, no, my poor soul,” said Geoffrey, kindly, as he held her up. “There, there, don’t kneel to me. Come, sit down,” he cried, kissing her pleasant, motherly face; and the tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. “Come, Uncle Paul, let us try if we cannot see daylight out through this miserable fog.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, who was standing with his head bent. “Yes, yes,” he continued, heartily; “sit down—sit down, my boy. We will have no more passion. It shall all be calm and quiet. Come, Geoffrey, you’ll smoke one of the old cheroots with me again?”
He smiled in the young man’s face as he took out his case.
“Indeed, I will,” cried Geoffrey, catching the old man’s hand and retaining it. “Why, Uncle Paul—old fellow, this is like the good old times.”
They sat there hand clasped in hand for some moments, and then the elder shook Geoffrey’s softly and let it go.
“Come,” he said, “light up. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, let us light up,” said Geoffrey. “Mrs Mullion, may we smoke before you? I don’t want you to go away.”
“Oh, no, I will not go,” said the poor woman, tenderly, as she hastened to hand them each a light.
Then they smoked for a few minutes in silence, Mrs Mullion at a sign from the old man bringing out his handsome silver spirit-stand and glasses, with hot water and sugar.
“Come, Geoffrey, my boy,” cried Uncle Paul; “mix for yourself, and let’s drink to the happy future.”