‘Not very,’ the Progenitor answered, in a somewhat embarrassed manner, surveying her curiously. ‘At least, I should think not. He’s gone to Holloway for an hour or two, but I fancy he’ll be back for two o’clock luncheon, Miss——ur, I don’t think I caught your name, did I?’
‘To Holloway,’ Hilda echoed, taking no notice of his suggested query. ‘Oh, then he’s gone to see the poor dear Le Bretons, of course. Why, that’s just what I wanted to see him about. If you’ll allow me then, I’ll just stop and have lunch with you.’
‘The dickens you will,’ the Progenitor thought to himself in speechless astonishment. ‘That’s really awfully cool of you. However, I dare say it’s usual to invite oneself in the state of life that that boy Artie has gone and hoisted himself into, most unnaturally. A fine lady, no doubt, of their modern pattern; but in my day, up in Paddington, we should have called her a brazen hussey.—Certainly, if you will,’ he added aloud. ‘If you’ve come on any errand that will do any good to the Le Bretons, I’m sure my son’ll be delighted to see you. He’s greatly grieved at their unhappy condition.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing much to suggest of any very practical sort,’ Hilda answered, with a slight sigh; ‘but at least I should like to talk with him about the matter. Something must be done for these two poor young people, you know, Mr. Berkeley. Something must really be done to help them.’
‘Then you’re interested in them, Miss—ur—ur—ah, yes—are you?’
‘Look at my eyes,’ Hilda said plumply. ‘Are they very red, Mr. Berkeley?’
‘Well....ur...yes, if I may venture to say so to a lady,’ the old shoemaker answered hesitatingly, with unwonted gallantry. ‘I should say they were a trifle, ur, just a trifle roseate, you know.’
‘Quite so,’ Hilda went on, seriously. ‘That’s it. They’re red with crying. I’ve been crying like a baby all the morning with that poor, dear, sweet little angel of a Mrs. Le Breton.’
‘Then you’re a great friend of hers, I suppose,’ the Progenitor suggested mildly.
‘Never set eyes on her in my life before this morning, on the contrary,’ Hilda continued in her garrulous fashion. ‘But, oh, Mr. Berkeley, if you’d only seen that dear little woman, crying as if her heart would break, and telling me that dear Ernest was dying, actually dying; why—there—excuse me—I can’t help it, you know; we women are always crying about something or other, aren’t we?’