She was so long in answering, that Mrs.Thornburgh sat and thought with trepidation of all sorts of unpleasant consequences which might result from this audacious move of hers.
'I don't know how we _should_ get on,' cried Mrs.Leyburn at last, with a sort of suppressed sob, while something very like a tear fell on the stocking she held.
Mrs.Thornburgh was still more frightened, and rushed into a flood of apologetic speech.

Very likely she was wrong perhaps it was all a mistake, she was afraid she had done harm, and so on.

Mrs.Leyburn took very little heed, but at last she said, looking up and applying a soft handkerchief gently to her eyes-- 'Is his mother nice?
Where's his living?
Would he want to be married soon ?' The voice was weak and tearful, but there was in it unmistakable eagerness to be informed.

Mrs.Thornburgh, overjoyed, let loose upon her a flood of particulars, painted the virtues and talents of Mrs.Elsmere, described Robert's Oxford career, with an admirable sense for effect, and a truly feminine capacity for murdering every university detail, drew pictures of the Murewell living, and rectory, of which Robert had photographs with him, threw in adroit information about the young man's private means, and in general showed what may be made of a woman's mind under the stimulus of one of the occupations most proper to it.

Mrs.
Leyburn brightened visibly as the flood proceeded.