"
The seamstress answered in her quiet voice: "Very comfortable this is.
Sit still, Stanley!" Her little son, whose feet did not reach the floor,
was drumming his heels against the seat. He stopped and looked at her,
and the old butler addressed him.
"You'll a-remember of this occasion," he said, "when you gets older."
The little boy turned his black eyes from his mother to him who had
spoken last.
"It's a beautiful wreath," continued Creed. "I could smell of it all the
way up the stairs. There's been no expense spared; there's white laylock
in it--that's a class of flower that's very extravagant."
A train of thought having been roused too strong for his discretion, he
added: "I saw that young girl yesterday. She came interrogatin' of me in
the street."
On Mrs. Hughs' face, where till now expression had been buried, came
such a look as one may see on the face of an owl-hard, watchful, cruel;
harder, more cruel, for the softness of the big dark eyes.
"She'd show a better feeling," she said, "to keep a quiet tongue. Sit
still, Stanley!"
Once more the little boy stopped drumming his heels, and shifted his
stare from the old butler back to her who spoke. The cab, which had
seemed to hesitate and start, as though jibbing at something in the
road, resumed its ambling pace. Creed looked through the well-closed
window.
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