“Lady Chavasse, considering the difference between the admiral’s age and Sir Geoffry’s, I should say there are thirty chances against it,” was Duffham’s reply, as he began to roll up the bottle of mixture in white paper.
While he was doing this, a clapping of tiny hands attracted Lady Chavasse’s attention to the window, which stood open. A little boy had run out of Mrs. Layne’s door opposite, and stood on the pavement in admiration of the carriage, which the groom was driving slowly about. It was a pretty child of some three years old, or thereabouts, in a brown holland pinafore strapped round the waist, his little arms and legs and neck bare, and his light hair curling.
“Oh, g’andma, look! G’andma, come and look!” he cried—and the words were wafted distinctly to Lady Chavasse.
“Who is that child, Mr. Duffham? I have seen him sometimes before. Stay, though, I remember—I think I have heard. He belongs to that daughter of Mr. Layne’s who married a soldier of the same name. A lieutenant, or some grade of that kind, was he not?”
“Lieutenant Layne then: Captain Layne now,” carelessly replied Mr. Duffham. “Hopes to get his majority in time, no doubt.”
“Oh, indeed. I sometimes wonder how people devoid of family connections manage to obtain rapid promotion. The grandmother takes care of the child, I suppose. Quite a charge for her.”
Mr. Duffham, standing now by her side, glanced at Lady Chavasse. Her countenance was open, unembarrassed: there was no sign of ulterior thought upon it. Evidently a certain event of the past was not just then in her remembrance.
“How is the old lady?” she asked.
“Middling. She breaks fast. I doubt, though, if one of her daughters will not go before her.”