“It’s dear Aunt Price,” cried Polly, jumping up; and, regardless of her finery, she ran to the severe-looking old lady, hugged her affectionately, and then began to unpin her shawl, and take off her hat. “Oh, aunty, I’m so glad you’ve come.”
“And are you married, look you?” said the old lady.
“Married, yes,” cried Humphrey, heartily; “we couldn’t wait, you know, or it would have been too late. Give’s your umbrella, and come and sit down. Why didn’t you come last night?”
“It was too far, my poy,” said the old lady; “and I was tired. It’s a long way, look you, from Caerwmlych, and I’m a very old woman now. Well, Lloyd—well, Chane, you’re both looking older than when I was here last, close upon thirty years ago, and nursed you through two illnesses.”
“We are quite well,” said Mrs Lloyd; “but didn’t expect you here.”
“P’r’abs not, p’r’abs not,” said the old lady; “put Polly here wrote to me to come, and I thought it was time, for she’s peen telling me strange news, look you.”
Lloyd shuffled in his chair, Mrs Lloyd was silent, and Richard’s brow knit as he glanced across the table at Pratt, while Humphrey busied himself in supplying the old lady’s plate.
“I cot Polly’s letter, look you, and I teclare to cootness, if I’d been tead and perried, I think I should have cot up and t come, look you. And so you’re married to Humphrey! Ah, well, he was a tisacreeable paby; but he’s grown, look you, into a fine lad, and I wish you poth choy.”
The old lady took a glass of wine and ate a little, and then grew more garrulous than ever, while no one else seemed disposed to speak.
“And I’m glad to see you again,” said the old lady, looking at Richard. “I tidn’t expect it when I left you at the railway place; and yet I seemed to know you again, look you. I felt I knew the face, and I teclare to cootness I couldn’t tell where I’d seen it, but I rememper now.”