The excellent Mrs. Booker, best of landladies, greeted him with every indication of respectful devotion.
“It’s a treat to see you again, sir, it is indeed,” she said, opening the door of the comfortable little parlour, where a jolly fire was burning in the grate and reflecting its rays on many framed and autographed photographs of the celebrated artists the room at one time or another had accommodated.
“When I heard you’d gorn to London, I said to Booker, ‘There! we’ve lorst ’im,’ and ’e says, ‘I believe we ’ave,’ and I says, ‘That’s what we ’ave done; for, depend on it, if London gets hold of ’im, it’ll claim ’im as their own and never let ’im go.’ ”
Eliphalet’s lips tightened a little. He drew off his gloves and cast them on the embossed green plush sofa, and quoted:
“The clinging magic runs,
They will return as strangers,
They will remain as sons.”
“I returned as a son—and could not remain as a stranger.” Then, observing that his remarks were entirely lost upon his audience, he concluded:
“Did you get me a small leg of lamb, Mrs. Booker?”
She nodded gravely.