Mr. Thrush looked down steadily at the “round” which glistened on his plate. Something fell upon it.
“Oh, Mr. Thrush——!” began Robin, and paused in dismay, looking up at his mother.
“Madame,” said Mr. Thrush again, still looking at the “round,” “I haven’t felt as I do now since I stood behind my counter just off Hanover Square, respected. Yes,” he said, and his old voice quavered upwards, gaining in strength, “respected by all who knew me. She was with me then, and now she isn’t. But I feel—I feel—I’m respected again.”
Something else fell upon the toast.
“And it’s all your doing, madam. I—all I can say is that I—all I can say——” His voice failed.
Rosamund put her hand on his shoulder.
“There, Mr. Thrush, there! I know, I know just how it is.”
“Madame,” said Mr. Thrush, with quavering emphasis, “one can depend upon you, a man can depend upon you. What you undertake you carry through, even if it’s only the putting on his feet of—of—I never thought to be a verger, never. I never could have looked up to such a thing but for you. But Mr. Dean he said to me, ‘Mr. Thrush, when Mrs. Leith speaks up for a man, even an archbishop has to listen.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Thrush. Robin, give Mr. Thrush the brown sugar. He always likes brown sugar in his tea.”
“It’s more nourishing, madam,” said Mr. Thrush, with a sudden change from emotion to quiet self-confidence. “It does more work for the stomach. A chemist knows.”