“No,” he said. “Ah’n com ter see thee, nowt else. Wheer’s Meg?”
“Ah!—Ha—Ha—Ah!—Me, did ter say?—come ter see me?—Ha—wheer’s Meg!—an’ who’s this young gentleman?”
I was formally introduced, and shook the clammy corded hand of the old lady.
“Tha’ looks delikit,” she observed, shaking her cap and its scarlet geraniums sadly: “Cum now, sit thee down, an’ dunna look so long o’ th’ leg.”
I sat down on the sofa, on the cushions covered with blue and red checks. The room was very hot, and I stared about uncomfortably. The old lady sat peering at nothing, in reverie. She was a hard-visaged, bosomless dame, clad in thick black cloth-like armour, and wearing an immense twisted gold brooch in the lace at her neck.
We heard heavy, quick footsteps above.
“Er’s commin’,” remarked the old lady, rousing from her apathy. The footsteps came down-stairs—quickly, then cautiously round the bend. Meg appeared in the doorway. She started with surprise, saying:
“Well, I ’eered sumbody, but I never thought it was you.” More colour still flamed into her glossy cheeks, and she smiled in her fresh, frank way. I think I have never seen a woman who had more physical charm; there was a voluptuous fascination in her every outline and movement; one never listened to the words that came from her lips, one watched the ripe motion of those red fruits.
“Get ’em a drop o’ whiskey, Meg—you’ll ’a’e a drop?”
