Then she set herself solemnly to investigate the connubial bliss of the young couple. Chapter XII The passion to analyse the casual fellow-creature was the most absorbing vice that Miss Ley possessed; and no ties of relationship or affection (the two go not invariably together) prevented her from exercising her talents in that direction. She observed Bertha and Edward during luncheon: Bertha was talkative, chattering with a vivacity that seemed suspicious, about the neighbours--Mrs. Branderton’s new bonnets and new hair, Miss Glover’s good works and Mr. Glover’s visits to London; Edward was silent, except when he pressed Miss Ley to take a second helping. He ate largely, and the maiden lady noticed the enormous mouthfuls he took and the heartiness with which he drank his beer. Of course she drew conclusions; and she drew further conclusions, when, having devoured half a pound of cheese and taken a last drink of ale, he pushed back his chair and with a sort of low roar, reminding one of a beast of prey gorged with food, said-- “Ah, well, I suppose I must set about my work. There’s no rest for the weary.” He pulled a new briar-wood pipe from his pocket, filled and lit it. “I feel better now.... Well, so-long; I shall be in to tea.” Conclusions buzzed about Miss Ley, like midges on a summer’s day. She drew them all the afternoon; she drew them all through dinner. Bertha was effusive too, unusually so; and Miss Ley asked herself a dozen times if this stream of chatter, these peals of laughter, proceeded from a light heart or from a base desire to deceive a middle-aged and inquiring aunt. After dinner, Edward, telling her that of course she was one of the family so he hoped she did not wish him to stand on ceremony, began to read the paper. When Bertha, at Miss Ley’s request, played the piano, good manners made him put it aside, and he yawned a dozen times in a quarter of an hour. “I mustn’t play any more,” said Bertha, “or Eddie will go to sleep--won’t you, darling?” “I shouldn’t wonder,” he replied, laughing. “The fact is that the things Bertha plays when we’ve got company give me the fair hump!” “Edward only consents to listen when I play _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ or _Yankee Doodle_.” Bertha made the remark, smiling good-naturedly at her husband, but Miss Ley drew conclusions. “I don’t mind confessing that I can’t stand all this foreign music. What I say to Bertha is--why can’t you play English stuff?” “If you must play at all,” interposed his wife. “After all’s said and done _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ has got a tune about it that a fellow can get his teeth into.” “You see, there’s the difference,” said Bertha, strumming a few bars of _Rule Britannia_, “it sets mine on edge.” “Well, I’m patriotic,” retorted Edward. “I like the good, honest, homely English airs. I like ’em because they’re English. I’m not ashamed to say that for me the best piece of music that’s ever been written is _God Save the Queen_.”