THE BRUSHWOOD BOY
"Oh, quite. I 've a very dear friend of mine that I want you to know. She could n't come with the house so full, because she 's an invalid, and she was away when you first came. She 's a Mrs. Lacy."
"Lacy! I don't remember the name about here."
"No; they came after you went to India—from Oxford. Her husband died there, and she lost some money, I believe. They bought The Firs on the Bassett Road. She 's a very sweet woman, and we 're very fond of them both."
"She 's a widow, did n't you say?"
"She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear?"
"Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle, and 'Oh, Major Cottah!' and all that sort of thing?"
"No, indeed. She 's a very quiet girl, and very musical. She always came over here with her music-books—composing, you know; and she generally works all day, so you won't—"
"'Talking about Miriam?" said the pater, coming up. The mother edged toward him within elbow-reach. There was no finesse about Georgie's father. "Oh, Miriam 's a dear girl. Plays beautifully. Rides beautifully, too. She 's a regular pet of the household. Used to call me—" The elbow went home, and ignorant but obedient always, the pater shut himself off.
"What used she to call you, sir?"
"All sorts of pet names. I 'm very fond of Miriam."
"Sounds Jewish—Miriam."
"Jew! You 'll be calling yourself a Jew next. She 's one of the Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies—"
Again the elbow.
[416]
