Mrs. Chaffin (good soul) had evidently concluded that my cousin was a man entitled to extra politeness. Hester had adroitly side-tracked the herring question and started another train of speculation, when her mother's misgivings were again excited respecting the tea, which Rayel had just tasted.
"Murky, sir?" she asked, with a glance of alarm. "I 'ope it don't taste murky."
Mrs. Chaffin's solicitude respecting the tea and the herring reminded me of the first time I had stretched my tired legs under that hospitable board at Phil's invitation; of those big, wondering eyes that stared at me across the table; of the songs and stories which beguiled the evening hours.
The candles were lit before dinner was over, and when we rose from the table it was to gather about the warm fire and exchange memories, while Rayel listened with deep interest. Phil had been promoted from a pair of legs to a pair of hands, and was now third bookkeeper for the firm. Our carriage came for us at nine o'clock. Hester had decided to stay a day or two with her mother, but it was necessary for Rayel and me to return to London that night, as we were to make an important call the next day.