“Don't mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds of heaven.
There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously.
“It's only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling.
The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction.
“Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don't know who you are, but I s'pose my 'usband does.”
“I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and helped me up.”
Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I've heard of it,” she remarked.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you wasn't hurt much, miss?”
“I twisted my ankle a bit, that's all,” said the girl; “it's painful when I walk.”
“Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern.