“If I 'ad the woman what made this dress 'ere,” gasped Mrs. Kybird, as she stopped with her hand on her side, “I'd give her a bit o' my mind.”
“I never saw you look so well in anything before, ma,” said her daughter.
Mrs. Kybird smiled faintly and continued her pilgrimage. Jem Hardy coming up rapidly behind composed his amused features and stepped into the road to pass.
“Halloa, Hardy,” said Nugent. “Going home?”
“I am calling on your sister,” said Hardy, bowing.
“By Jove, so are we,” said Nugent, relieved to find this friend in need. “We'll go together. You know Mrs. Kybird and Miss Kybird? That is Mrs. Kybird.”
Mrs. Kybird bade him “Go along, do,” and acknowledged the introduction with as stately a bow as the black satin would permit, and before the dazed Jem quite knew how it all happened he was leading the way with Mrs. Kybird, while the young people, as she called them, followed behind.
“We ain't looking at you,” she said, playfully, over her shoulder.
“And we're trying to shut our eyes to your goings on,” retorted Nugent.
Mrs. Kybird stopped and, with a half-turn, play-fully reached for him with her umbrella. The exertion and the joke combined took the remnant of her breath away, and she stood still, panting.