“Git married,” declared Mr. Braden.
“How very clever you are, Mr. Braden! I wish poor dear Mr. Crewe would get married—a wife could take so many burdens off his shoulders. You don't know Mr. Crewe very well, do you?”
“Callate to—so so,” said Mr. Braden.
Mrs. Pomfret was at sea again.
“I mean, do you see him often?”
“Seen him once,” said Mr. Braden. “G-guess that's enough.”
“You're a shrewd judge of human nature, Mr. Braden,” she replied, tapping him on the shoulder with the lorgnette, “but you can have no idea how good he is—how unceasingly he works for others. He is not a man who gives much expression to his feelings, as no doubt you have discovered, but if you knew him as I do, you would realize how much affection he has for his country neighbours and how much he has their welfare at heart.”
“Loves 'em—does he—loves 'em?”
“He is like an English gentleman in his sense of responsibility,” said Mrs. Pomfret; “over there, you know, it is a part of a country gentleman's duty to improve the condition of his—his neighbours. And then Mr. Crewe is so fond of his townspeople that he couldn't resist doing this for them,” and she indicated with a sweep of her eyeglasses the beatitude with which they were surrounded.
“Wahn't no occasion to,” said Mr. Braden.