Well; who's
this?" He stood chewing orange-skin and blinking up at Lloyd Pryor,
who came forward reluctantly.
"My name is Pryor, sir, I--"
"Oh! Yes. _I_ know. _I_ know. The lady's brother. Here! Push that
chair out for me."
And Mr. Lloyd Pryor found himself bringing a chair forward and taking
the hat and stick from the trembling old hand. Helena had gone quickly
into the dining-room, and came back with a decanter and glass on a
little tray. She gave a distressed glance at her other guest as though
to say, "I can't help it!"
Benjamin Wright's old head in its brown wig was still shaking with
fatigue, but under the prickle of white on his shaven jowl the
purplish color came back in mottled streaks. He sipped the sherry
breathlessly, the glass trembling in his veined and shrunken hand.
"Well," he demanded, "how do you two like this God-forsaken place?"
Mr. Pryor, looking over their visitor's head at Helena, shrugged his
shoulders.
"It is very nice," she said vaguely,
"It's a narrowing place," he demurred, "very narrowing; sit down, sit
down, good people! I'll take some more sherry. My grandson," he went
on, as Helena filled his glass, "is always talking about you, madam.
He's a great jackass. I'm afraid he bothers you with his calls?"
"Oh, not at all," Helena said nervously. She sat down on the other
side of the big rosewood centre-table, glancing with worried eyes at
Lloyd Pryor.
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