“Near-sighted, be you?” he inquired,—a remark so unexpected that for the moment Mrs. Pomfret was deprived of speech.
“I manage to see better with—with these,” she gasped, “when we get old—you know.”
“You hain't old,” said Mr. Braden, gallantly. “If you be,” he added, his eye travelling up and down the Parisian curves, “I wouldn't have suspected it—not a mite.”
“I'm afraid you are given to flattery, Mr.—Mr.—” she replied hurriedly. “Whom have I the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Job Braden's my name,” he answered, “but you have the advantage of me.”
“How?” demanded the thoroughly bewildered Mrs. Pomfret.
“I hain't heard your name,” he said.
“Oh, I'm Mrs. Pomfret—a very old friend of Mr. Crewe's. Whenever he has his friends with him, like this, I come over and help him. It is so difficult for a bachelor to entertain, Mr. Braden.”
“Well,” said Mr. Braden, bending alarmingly near her ear, “there's one way out of it.”
“What's that?” said Mrs. Pomfret.