Mr. Bragg looked down gravely on the small creature, and then up at Owen, as he said--half shyly, and yet with a certain tinge of complacency, "Why, she _would_ come and set on my knee, almost the first minute she saw me." "Perhaps you had better get down, baby," said Mrs. Bransby. "I am afraid she may be troublesome." "Troublesome? Lord, no! Why, I don't feel she's there, no more than a fly. Let her bide," said Mr. Bragg. "Ah, _I_ know what she is:--she's fickle," observed Owen, drawing up his chair. "_Not_ pickle!" declared Miss Enid, with great majesty. "Yes, you are! False, fleeting, perjured Enid!" said Owen. He was delighted to perceive that the little home and its inmates had evidently made a favourable impression on Mr. Bragg. Observing that gentleman in the new light of May's revelation, he saw something in his face which he had not seen there before:--a regretful, far-away look, whenever he was not speaking, or being spoken to. It was wonderfully strange, certainly, to think of him as May's wooer! And yet not absurd, as it had appeared at first. In Mr. Bragg's presence, the absurdity, somehow, vanished. The simplicity and reality of the man gave him dignity. Owen even began to feel something like a vague and respectful compassion for Mr. Bragg; and every now and then the peculiarity of their mutual position would come over him with a fresh sense of surprise. "We have been having a little conversation, Mrs. Bransby and me, about her boy here," said Mr. Bragg, glancing across at Martin, who coloured, and smiled with repressed eagerness. Mr. Bragg continued to observe him thoughtfully. "He tells me he wants to help his mother; and he's not afraid or ashamed of work, it seems." "Ashamed!" broke out Martin. "No, I hope I ain't such a cad as that!" "Martin!" cried his mother anxiously. She was nervous lest he should give offence. But Mr. Bragg answered with a little nod, which certainly did not express disapprobation, "Well, the boy's about right. To be ashamed of the wrong things, does belong to--what you might call a cad. I expect," pursued Mr. Bragg musingly, "that if we could always apply our shame in the right place, we should all of us do better than we do." "I suppose I dare not offer you any tea at this hour?" said Mrs. Bransby gently. "You have not dined, of course." "Well, no; not under the _name_ of dinner, I haven't! But I ate a hearty luncheon; and I believe that's about as much dinner as I want; to do me any good, you know. I'll have a cup of tea, please." Mrs. Bransby certainly felt no misapplied shame as to the humbleness and poverty of her surroundings; and was far too truly a gentlewoman to think of apologizing for them. Ethel, who was growing to be quite a notable little housewife, quietly fetched another cup and saucer from the kitchen; and that was all the difference which Mr. Bragg's presence made in the ordinary arrangements.