“And Aunt Dyke too—she’s his second, you know. They are both flourishing just now with rheumatism. He has got it in his chest, and she in her knees—tra, la, la, la! I say, are you not going to invite me in?”
Lizzie’s conversation had been interspersed with laughs and antics. I saw Harriet look at her keenly. “Was it a public-house you took shelter in, Lizzie?” she asked.
“As if it could have been a private one! That’s good.”
“Is your husband with you at Brighton? I suppose you are married, Lizzie?”
“As safe as that you are an old maid—or going on for one. My husband’s a doctor and can’t leave his patients. I came down with a friend of mine, Miss Panken; she has to go back to-night, but I mean to stay over Christmas-Day. I’ll tell you all about my husband if you’ll be civil enough to take me indoors.”
“I can’t take you in to-night, Lizzie. It’s too late, for one thing, and we must not have visitors on a Sunday. But you can come over to tea to-morrow evening; I’m sure my lady won’t object. Come early in the afternoon. And look here,” added Harriet, dropping her voice, “don’t drink anything beforehand; come quiet and decent.”
“Who has been telling you that I do drink?” demanded Lizzie, in a sharp tone.
“Well, nobody has told me. But I can see it. I hope it’s not a practice with you; that’s all.”
“A practice! There you go! It wouldn’t be you, Harriet, if you didn’t say something unpleasant. One must take a sup of hot liquor when benighted in such freezing snow as this. And I did not put on my warm cloak; it was fine and bright when I started.”
“Shall I lend you one? I’ll get it in a minute. Or a waterproof?”