“Don’t say that, or you’ll go directly.”
“Am I so little to be relied upon?”
“You’re more to be relied upon than silver and gold.” As she said it, Miss Wren suddenly broke off, screwed up her eyes and her chin, and looked prodigiously knowing. “Aha!
Who comes here? A Grenadier. What does he want? A pot of beer.
And nothing else in the world, my dear!”
A man’s figure paused on the pavement at the outer door. “ Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, ain’t it?” said Miss Wren.
“So I am told,” was the answer.
“You may come in, if you’re good.”
“I am not good,” said Eugene, “but I’ll come in.”
He gave his hand to Jenny Wren, and he gave his hand to Lizzie, and he stood leaning by the door at Lizzie’s side. He had been strolling with his cigar, he said, (it was smoked out and gone by this time,) and he had strolled round to return in that direction that he might look in as he passed. Had she not seen her brother tonight?
“Yes,” said Lizzie, whose manner was a little troubled.
Gracious condescension on our brother’s part! Mr. Eugene Wrayburn thought he had passed my young gentleman on the bridge yonder. Who was his friend with him?
“The schoolmaster.”
“To be sure. Looked like it.”