Mr. Bragg provided May with a cup of tea, and then took one of the little cakes himself. "They eat uncommonly short," said he with strong, though quiet, approbation. "All the eatables seem good." "Not a doubt of it. Miss Patty is a wonderful housekeeper." "Now, do you suppose she made those little cakes herself?" "I cannot tell; but I am sure she could if she chose. She makes excellent cakes." "Ah! I remember her giving me some very good ideas about a beefsteak pudding. I tried to make my cook do one according to her receipt; but it didn't answer," said Mr. Bragg with a sigh. Presently he remarked, as he slowly stirred his tea round and round, "This is a bad job about Mr. George Cheffington." "Yes; I am very sorry for Lord Castlecombe." "Ah, your uncle--or great-uncle is he?--I'm not much of a hand at remembering the ins and outs of families--is hard hit. But he bears up wonderfully, to outward appearance." "Have you seen him, Mr. Bragg?" "Yes; saw him o' Monday about some business. He's a keen hand at a bargain, is Lord Castlecombe. I don't know that I ever met with a keener." "Poor old man!" "Ay, that's what _I_ say, Miss Cheffington. Keenness and all that is very well, so long as you've got somebody to be keen for. But it's a dreary thing to be alone in advancing years. I feel it myself, though I'm--well, I dare say nigh upon twenty years younger than his Lordship." There was a little pause, during which Mr. Bragg sipped his tea and ate another cake. Then he repeated, "It's a dreary thing to be alone." "Are you alone, Mr. Bragg?" asked May, feeling that she was expected to say something. "I thought you had sons and daughters." "Only one son, and he's away in South America--settled in Buenos Ayres years ago. He's a rich man already, is Joshua. I started him well, though I hadn't so much money in those days as I have now, not by a deal, and he's done well. And he married a lady with money--a Spanish merchant's daughter. No; there's no likelihood of Josh coming home to England to keep me company, even supposing I wanted him to." Then ensued another pause. Then Mr. Bragg said, "I'm to have the pleasure of meeting you at Glengowrie this autumn, I understand." "No; I have decided not to go. I have written to Mrs. Griffin to say so." "Oh! What--on account of this death in your family?" "No, I cannot say that. It would be mere pretence. I never saw George Cheffington in my life; and he was not a very close relation." Mr. Bragg nodded approvingly. "That's a straightforward way of looking at it," he said. "But I'm disappointed you ain't to be at Glengowrie." "Thank you. But my absence will not make much difference, I should say." "I don't know. It might make a deal of difference," returned Mr. Bragg, speaking even more slowly than was his wont. "But where _shall_ you be then?" "Where I like best to be; here, with Granny." "Granny?" "My grandmother, Mrs. Dobbs. You must know her by name, at all events, for you are her tenant."