“I’m sure you’re not,” said he.  “But we’ve had a good deal of rash in our family, and it just happens that I’ve got a remedy—­a good sound north-country remedy—­and it struck me you might like to know of it.  So if you like I’ll telegraph to my missis for the recipe.  Here’s my card.”

She read his name, title and address.

“Well,” she said, “it’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Mr. Machin.  I knew you must come from up there the moment ye spoke.  It does one good above a bit to hear a plain north-country voice after all this fal-lalling.”

She blew her lovely nose.

“Doesn’t it!” Edward Henry agreed.  “That was just what I thought when I heard you say ‘Bless us!’ Do you know, I’ve been in London only a two-three days, and I assure you I was beginning to feel lonely for a bit of the Midland accent!”

“Yes,” she said, “London’s lonely!” And sighed.

“My eldest was bitten by a dog the other day,” he went on, in the vein of gossip.

“Oh, don’t!” she protested.

“Yes.  Gave us a lot of anxiety.  All right now!  You might like to know that cyanide gauze is a good thing to put on a wound—­supposing anything should happen to yours—­”

“Oh, don’t!” she protested.  “I do hope and pray Robert will never be bitten by a dog.  Was it a big dog?”

“Fair,” said Edward Henry.  “So his name’s Robert!  So’s my eldest’s!”

“Really now!  They wanted him to be called Robert Philip Stephen Darrand Patrick.  But I wouldn’t have it.  He’s just Robert.  I did have my own way there!  You know he was born six months after his father’s death.”

“And I suppose he’s ten months now?”

“No.  Only six.”

“Great Scott!  He’s big!” said Edward Henry.

“Well,” said she, “he is.  I am, you see.”

“Now, Lady Woldo,” said Edward Henry in a new tone, “as we’re both from the same part of the country I want to be perfectly straight and above-board with you.  It’s quite true—­all that about the rash.  And I did think you’d like to know.  But that’s not really what I came to see you about.  You understand, not knowing you, I fancied there might be some difficulty in getting at you—­”

“Oh! no!” she said simply.  “Everybody gets at me.”

“Well, I didn’t know, you see.  So I just mentioned the baby to begin with, like!”

“I hope you’re not after money,” she said, almost plaintively.

“I’m not,” he said.  “You can ask anybody in Bursley or Hanbridge whether I’m the sort of man to go out on the cadge.”

“I once was in the chorus in a panto at Hanbridge,” she said.  “Don’t they call Bursley ‘Bosley’ down there—­’owd Bosley’?”

Edward Henry dealt suitably with these remarks, and then gave her a judicious version of the nature of his business, referring several times to Mr. Rollo Wrissell.

“Mr. Wrissell!” she murmured, smiling.

“In the end I told Mr. Wrissell to go and bury himself,” said Edward Henry.  “And that’s about as far as I’ve got.”