The last notes floated in the air as the door opened, and in rushed Mrs Magens nicely got up in a drab silk dress.
“How d’ye do, Mr Bromley, my kyind friend?” She held out both hands, and emphasised the “do,” after the manner of genteel comedy.
“Charming as ever, or may I be freckled,” responded Bromley, in the same tone.
“’Tis ages since we met. Let me look at ye.” She drew him towards the window, and scanned his features anxiously.
“A shade of care has fallen across that brow since last we met. Let’s see how long ago is it? A year—no—can it be? Time spares us not, Mr Bromley.”
“It spares the beautiful Magens.”
“Flatterer—the same as ever—the same gay-hearted, kyind——”
“A truce, I beseech ye,” broke in Bromley. “In yonder basket I have brought an offering I fain would make your household deities—some few articles, little luxuries, sent me from the country.”
The country always served as a veil in which to envelope Bromley’s presents to Mrs Magens. Had he avowed the purchase, she would have been offended or feigned offence.
But the country saved her pride.