For she had looked at him with a momentary bristle of enquiry in the gentle brown eyes, and he remembered, just in time, that her husband had once held the reins in Pall Mall for half a year, when, feeling atrophy creeping on, he resigned office and died three months later.

He hastened to add,—­“The ordinary Army-mule, you know, is specially constructed with a cast-iron mouth, and a neck of granite, and a disposition like—­like Mr. Pixley’s.  I imagine Mr. Pixley can be excessively unpleasant when he tries.  To me he is excessively unpleasant even to think of, and without any exertion whatever on his part.”

“Yes.  Mrs. Pixley would rather convey that impression.  She is always depressed and apprehensive-looking.  But she is very fond of Margaret, and that no doubt is why—­But I suppose she really has no choice in the matter, until she comes of age—­”

“Mrs. Pixley?”

“Until Margaret comes into her own she is no doubt obliged to submit to her guardian’s views.  It is difficult to imagine anyone not a Pixley living in the Pixley atmosphere of their own free will.  What is the son like?  I have only seen him once or twice.  Does he take after his father?”

“He’s about twice as tall, and several times as wide in some respects, I should say,—­certainly in the matter of the enjoyment of life.  He’s not bad-looking—­in a kind of a way, you know,—­that is, for those who like that kind of looks,—­a trifle fleshy perhaps.  But he’s a fair dancer, and sings a song well, and can talk about nothing as nicely as any man I ever met.  It’s an accomplishment I often envy.”

“I wouldn’t trouble about it, if I were you.  There are things more worth doing in the world.  And that reminds me.  We were talking of your books.  I’ve been wanting to tell you that your love-scenes are not altogether to my liking.  They are just a little—­well, not quite—­”

“Yes, I know,” he said sadly.  “You see, I lack experience in such things.  Now, if Margaret—­”

“Don’t tell me you want to use her simply as a model,” she began, with another incipient gentle bristle.

“I want her as a model and a great many other things besides, dear Lady Elspeth.  I love Margaret Brandt with every atom of good that is in me.”

“And she?” with a nod and a sparkle.

“Ah!  There now—­that’s what I don’t know.  She’s not one to wear her heart on her sleeve.  At times I have dared to hope.  Then again I have feared—­”

“That is quite right.  That is quite as it should be.  Anything more, so early as this, would imply unmaidenliness on her part.”

“Truly?  You mean it?  You are, without exception, the most charming old lady in the world!  You relieve my mind immensely.  You see, she is always so sweet and charming.  But then she could not be anything else, and it may really mean nothing.  Do you really think I may hope?”

“‘White-handed Hope, thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings,’” she quoted, with a smile.