"
"My grandmother?" Alford repeated.
"Yes. Wouldn't you like to?" Mrs.. Yarrow asked, pouring the thick
composition over the toast (rescued stone-cold from the frigid tray) on
Alford's plate. "I'm sure I should like to see mine--dear old gran! Not
that I ever saw her--either of her--or should know how she looked. Did
you ever see yours--either of her?" she pursued, impulsively.
"Oh yes," Alford answered, looking intently at her, but with so little
speculation in the eyes he glared so with that he knew her to be uneasy
under them.
She laughed a little, and stayed her hand on the bail of the teapot.
"Which of her?"
"Oh, both!"
"And--and--did she look so much like _me_?" she said, with an added
laugh, that he perceived had an hysterical note in it. "You're letting
your rarebit get cold!"
He laughed himself, now, a great laugh of relaxation, of relief. "Not
the least in the world! She was not exactly a phantom of delight."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Alford. Now, it's your tea's getting cold."
They laughed together, and he gave himself to his victual with a relish
that she visibly enjoyed.
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