He did not appear to be grateful for the
interruption, but Mrs. Jasher was not at all dismayed, being a
man-hunter by profession. Besides, she saw that Braddock was in
the clouds as usual, and would have received the King himself in
the same absent-minded manner.
"Pouf! what an abominal smell!" exclaimed the widow, holding a
flimsy lace handkerchief to her nose. "Kind of
camphor-sandal-wood-charnel-house smell. I wonder you are not
asphyxiated. Pouf! Ugh! Bur-r-r!"
The Professor stared at her with cold, fishy eyes. "Did you
speak?"
"Oh, dear me, yes, and you don't even ask me to take a chair. If
I were a nasty stuffy mummy, now, you would be embracing me by,
this time. Don't you know that I have come to dinner, you silly
man?" and she tapped him playfully with her closed fan.
"I have had dinner," said Braddock, egotistic as usual.
"No, you have not." Mrs. Jasher spoke positively, and pointed to
a small tray of untouched food on the side table. "You have not
even had luncheon. You must live on air, like a chameleon--or
on love, perhaps," she ended in a significantly tender tone.
But she might as well have spoken to the granite image of Horus
in the corner. Braddock merely rubbed his chin and stared harder
than ever at the glittering visitor.
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