As the woman spoke she went straight across to the door on the left of the fireplace.
“Here! where are you going?” cried Stratton.
“Back directly, sir,” came in smothered tones, accompanied by the pulling of a bath chain, the gurgling of water, and the sound of shutting down a heavy lid.
“Lor’, how strong Mr Brettison do smell, sir. It’s my memory’s got that bad, sir,” said the woman, reappearing and carefully shutting the door, “that I’m obliged to do things when I see them want doing, else I forgets. It was only yesterday that Mr Brettison—”
“Mrs Brade, the cheque, please.”
“Of course, sir,” said the woman hastily just as there was a little rat-tat at the brass knocker of the outer door, which she opened.
“Here is Mr Brettison, sir,” and she drew back to admit a spare looking, grey man, dressed in dark tweed, who removed his soft felt hat and threw it, with a botanist’s vasculum and a heavy oaken stick, upon an easy-chair, as he watched the departure of the porter’s wife before turning quickly and, with tears in his eyes, grasping Stratton’s hands and shaking them warmly.
“My dear boy,” he said, in a voice full of emotion, “God bless you! Happiness to you! God bless you both!”
“My dear old friend!” cried Stratton. “Thank you; for Myra, too. But come, you’ve repented. You will join the wedding party after all?”
“I? Oh, no, no, my boy. I’m no wedding guest. Why, Malcolm, I should be a regular ancient mariner without the glittering eye.”