"Just saved myself by the skin of my teeth," observed the young fellow, in his chirpy voice. He had a Graphic and a bag of greengages, and seemed more cheerful than ever.
"Like to see the Graphic, miss?" holding out the paper with an ingratiating smile that seemed to say, "Let's be sociable."
"Thanks very much, but I've seen it"—distinctly a white lie.
"Dear, what a bad job"—in a disappointed tone. "I could easily have got Black and White or the Sketch."
"Thank you"—in a freezing tone. "I do not care to read."
"Ah, you prefer to look at the scenery; know every yard of it myself between Layton and Brocklebank. My old mother lives at Brocklebank." (Lilian had a mother, too, at Brocklebank, but she kept this fact to herself.) "Beg pardon, may I offer you some greengages? They are very sweet and juicy."
"No, thank you," and then Lilian attempted a yawn and closed her eyes. Sleep was never farther from her, but she saw no other way of reducing him to silence, absurd and officious as he was; she had no wish to quarrel with him; it was evident the poor creature knew no better, she said to herself, with a superb tolerance.
Once when the silence had lasted a long time, she peeped through her fingers at him.
He was in a high state of enjoyment; he had the Graphic on his knee, and the open bag stood at his elbow; his hat was off, and his red crop gleamed in the sunshine, his round face and wide open blue eyes made him look like a radiant infant.
"I don't believe there's any harm in him; he can't help being vulgar," thought Lilian. "It was really very good-natured of him to offer to share his fruit with me; there goes another stone. Mr. Redhead evidently has a fancy for greengages."