And she turned her head slightly, so as to give Andy the benefit of that glance which the late Mr. Jebb found irresistible.
“Nonsense,” said Andy. “It’s what I’m paid for;” and he rustled his letters together, carefully avoiding the amorous eye.
“As your aunt remarked, in engaging my services,” said Mrs. Jebb, “it is a great thing for you to have a lady in the house. I hope you will let me help you in any way that I can.”
“Thank you. I’ll go round to Mrs. Simpson’s at once,” said Andy, leaving an excellent corner of the buttered toast. “By the way, I should like my potatoes soft in the middle if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Anything you wish, please mention at once,” said Mrs. Jebb. Nothing could subdue her gaiety upon this summer morning, when the birds were singing, and the sun was shining, and Hope threw wreaths upon the tombstone of Mr. Jebb.
Andy glared at her.
“There is nothing more at present, thank you,” he said, going out; then Mrs. Jebb went to the window and looked after him with an easy tear in her eye.
“Impetuous,” she murmured, “impetuous, but sweet.”
Could Andy but have heard her!
However, by this time he was already entering the little garden before Mrs. Simpson’s cottage at the lane end, and all his thoughts were engrossed by the unexpected sight of the famous sideboard standings in sections around the creeper-covered doorway. The widow sat weeping on an empty box near that part containing the cellaret, while a dark, anxious-looking little girl of about six stood pulling her mother’s sleeve, and a big boy of three hammered the little girl with broad, fat fists.