“She trusted me with William,” said Mrs. Petch simply, applying the corner of her apron to her eye.
“I know. I was not reflecting on you in any way, of course, Emma,” said Mrs. Atterton kindly. “Only, I promised to see after William sometimes, and I like to do it. Poor William! Of course, one can’t expect him to live for ever.”
“Parrots sometimes live to be a hundred,” said Mrs. Petch quickly. “Sam read that in the paper only the other day, ’m.”
“Well, we’ll hope William may,” said Mrs. Atterton comfortably. “I never liked him, even in his best days, but I don’t want him to die.”
There was a reposeful kindness about Mrs. Atterton that seemed exactly like that of her daughter Elizabeth—and yet, in its essence it was altogether different.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Mrs. Petch, long before Andy reached the group. She greeted him with such alacrity, indeed, that an enemy might have thought she welcomed the interruption to the interview with William.
“Oh, mamma, here is Mr. Deane. Mr. Deane, you haven’t met my mother?” said Elizabeth, who was, for some foolish and obscure reason, a little nervous.
“No—er—I am very glad—that is—I am sorry—at least, I mean to say I am delighted to meet you now,” said Andy, who, for some equally foolish and obscure reason, was nervous too.
Mrs. Atterton beamed placidly on him.
“Sorry I did not see you when you called, Mr. Deane, but it was one of my bad days. My back——” She paused, as if that explained all, and Andy filled in the blank with a sympathetic—