"Monsieur," said the old lady, as Cerise ran off to get a bowl to put the flowers in, "you are as welcome to us as your good kind master who saved my daughter yesterday. Will you convey to him our deepest respects and our thanks?"
"Saved her?" said Mudd.
Madame explained. Cerise, arranging the flowers, joined in; they waxed enthusiastic. Never had Mudd been so chattered to before. He saw the whole business and guessed how the land lay now. He felt deeply relieved. Madame inspired him with instinctive confidence; Cerise in her youth and innocence repelled any idea of marriage between herself and Simon. But they'd got to be warned, somehow, that Simon was off the spot. He began the warning seated there before the women and rubbing his knees gently, his eyes wandering about as though seeking inspiration from the furniture.
Mr. Pettigrew was a very good master, but he had to be took care of; his health wasn't what it might be. He was older than he looked, but lately he had had an illness that had made him suddenly grow young again, as you might say; the doctors could not make it out, but he was just like a child sometimes, as you might say.
"I said it," cut in Madame. "A boy—that is his charm."
Well, Mudd did not know anything about charms, but he was often very anxious about Mr. Pettigrew. Then, little by little, the confidence the women inspired opened his flood-gates and his suppressed emotions came out.
London was not good for Mr. Pettigrew's health—that was the truth; he ought to be got away quiet and out of excitement—doorknockers rose up before him as he said this—but he was very self-willed. It was strange a gentleman getting young again like this, and a great perplexity and trouble to an old man like him, Mudd.
"Ah, monsieur, he has been always young," said Madame; "that heart could never grow old."