"I prefer ye to say Britain, as I've told ye before. Your bit England is only a portion of the kingdom, and in very many respects the poorest portion, notably in brains and manners and beauty. But ye cannot draw me off like that, my laddie, whether it's meant for a compliment or no. I was just about telling you you were a fraud——"
"You hadn't got quite that length, you know, but——"
"Will I prove it to you? Haven't you been coming here as regular as the milkman for a month past——"
"Oh, come now!—Only once a day. I've an idea milkie comes twice, and besides——"
"And what did ye come for, my lad?" with an emphatic nod and a menacing shake of the frail white hand, pricelessly jewelled above, comfortably black-silk-mittened below. "Tell me that now! What did ye come for?"
"To see the dearest old lady in England—Britain, I mean. And—"
"Yes?—And?—" and she watched him, with her head a little on one side and her eyes shining brightly, like an expectant motherly robin hopping on treasure trove.
He smiled back at her and said nothing. He knew she knew without his telling.
"And so I was only second fiddle—" she began, with an assumption of scornful irascibility which became her less than her very oldest cap.
"Oh, dear me, no! Leader of the orchestra!—Proprietor of the house!—Sole director and manager and—"