“‘Richard’s himself again!’ Allow me to congratulate you,” cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. “But, I say, don’t you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?”
Barret looked at Milly.
“I think not,” said Milly. “As uncle often says of dear mother, ‘she is tough.’”
“Well, I’ll go,” said Barret.
In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.
“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; “there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with.”
“I thought, madam,” said Barret in a low voice, “that you would know me better with my cap on—”
He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.
“Forgive me,” cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.
“Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I’ve knocked her down again!” he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.