Otway had risen, and stood smiling, the picture of cordiality.
She was not a beauty, though the black hair broad-flung over her
shoulders made no common adornment; but her round, healthy face,
with its merry eyes and gleaming teeth, had an honest
attractiveness, and her soft Irish tongue went to the heart. It
never occurred to her to apologise for the disorderly state of
things. Having got rid of her fractious baby--not without a kiss
--she took the other child by the hand and with pride presented "My
daughter Leonora"--a name which gave Piers a little shock of
astonishment.
"Sit down, Piers," shouted her husband. "First we'll have tea and
talk; then we'll have talk and tobacco; then we'll have dinner and
talk again, and after that whatever the gods please to send us. My
day's work is done--_ecce signum_!"
He pointed to the slips of manuscript from which he had risen.
Alexander had begun life as a medical student, but never got so far
as a diploma. In many capacities, often humble but never
disgraceful, he had wandered over Broader Britain--drifting at
length, as he was bound to do, into irregular journalism.
"And how's the old man at home?" he asked, whilst Mrs. Otway busied
herself in getting tea. "Piers, it's the sorrow of my life that he
hasn't a good opinion of me. I don't say I deserve it, but, as I
live, I've always meant to And I admire him, Piers.
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