Brangwen blushed to the roots of his hair, and did not know what to say.
“I thought I might look in,” he said, “knowing you were friends of my brother's. I had to come to Wirksworth.”
She saw at once that he was a Brangwen.
“Will you come in?” she said. “My father is lying down.”
She took him into a drawing-room, full of books, with a piano and a violin-stand. And they talked, she simply and easily. She was full of dignity. The room was of a kind Brangwen had never known; the atmosphere seemed open and spacious, like a mountain-top to him.
“Does my brother like reading?” he asked.
“Some things. He has been reading Herbert Spencer. And we read Browning sometimes.”