He spoke with a little warmth—unusual to him—almost excitement, his correct, calm tone quickening. Then he resumed his ordinary note.
“I hope,” he said, with a keen look at her, “that poor Raaf made a favorable impression upon you.”
Her head was bent over her needlework, which she had gone on with, not interrupting her occupation.
“I did not see him,” she said. “Lucy ran in by herself; they waited for her, I believe, at the door.”
“Me see gemplemans,” sang Tiny, at his feet, making him start. She went on with her little song, repeating the words, “Dolly, such nice gemplemans. Give Dolly ride on’s shoulder ’nother time.”
And then Mrs. Nugent laughed, and told the story of Tiny’s escapade. It jarred somehow on the visitor. He did not know what to make of Tiny; her little breaks into the conversation, the chant that could not be taken for remark or criticism, and yet was so, kept him in a continual fret; but he tried to smile.
“My brother,” he said, “is the kind of primitive man who, I believe, pleases children—and dogs and primitive creatures generally—I—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Nugent.”
“No; why should you?” She dropped her work on her knee and looked up at him with a laugh. “Tiny is quite a primitive creature. She likes what is kind and big and takes her up with firm hands. That is how I have always explained the pleasure infants take often in men. They are only accustomed to us women about them; but they almost invariably turn from us poor small things and rejoice in the hold of a man—when he’s not frightened for them,” she added, taking up her work again.
“As most men are, however,” Mr. Wradisley said.
“Yes; that is our salvation. It would be too humiliating to think the little things preferred the look of a man. I have always thought it was the strength of his grasp.”