It was a critical moment: the lady who laughed might have retorted. But nothing further happened—except to Brassid. He was falling in love.
“I think it is,” he said in her defence. And he said it with all Brassid’s savagery.
“Oh, well, it’s your souvenir,” said Mrs. Mouthon, odiously.
“It is,” said Brassid.
He sprung the little case open and showed them a savage face much like his own. But there was a uniform with a high collar.
“My grandfather, the Indian-fighter. I wear it around my neck.”
And the lady opposite guiltily put her head down, permitting Brassid to see the loveliest of blond crowns, and, now and then, the edge of her smile; again, almost a laugh.
And so Brassid fell in love.
They cross-examined him with the precision and directness of barristers. He informed them that he came from the city, and who his parents were, and their parents, and theirs, all of whom seemed to be known to some of the six. The lady opposite kept her head down, but the smile came and went, nearer and nearer to laughter.
“Do you intend making some stay with us, sir?” inquired the lady with the one deaf ear.