“These are your boys, are they?” said the visitor, eyeing the youths. “Will you come and shake ’ands with me, Reggie? What a dear, good-looking boy he is, Mrs Cruden! And ’ow do you do, too, my man?” said she, addressing Horace. “Pretty well? And what do they call you?”
“My name is Horace,” said “my man,” blushing very decidedly, and retreating precipitately to a far corner of the room.
“Ah, dear me! And my ’usband’s name, Mrs Cruden, was ’Oward. I never ’ear the name without affliction.”
This was very awkward, for as the unfortunate widow could not fail to hear her own voice, it was necessary for consistency’s sake that she should show some emotion, which she proceeded to do, when her daughter hurriedly interposed in an audible whisper, “Ma, don’t make a goose of yourself! Behave yourself, do!”
“So I am be’aving myself, Jemima,” replied the outraged parent, “and I don’t need lessons from you.”
“It’s very kind of you to call in,” said Mrs Cruden, feeling it time to say something; “do you live near here?”
“We live next door, at number four,” said Miss Jemima; “put that handkerchief away, ma.”
“What next, I wonder! if my ’andkerchief’s not my hown, I’d like to know what is? Yes, Mrs Cruden. We heard you were coming, and we wish to treat you with consideration, knowing your circumstances. It’s all one gentlefolk can do to another. Yes, and I ’ope the boys will be good friends. Sam, talk to the boys.”
Sam needed no such maternal encouragement, as it happened, and had already swaggered up to Horace with a familiar air.
“Jolly weather, ain’t it?”