Mrs. Major clasped her hands. “Oh, do not give up hope, Mr. Marrapit. Something tells me you will see her—soon, very soon.”
Mr. Marrapit sighed. “You are always encouraging, Mrs. Major.”
“Something tells me that I have reason to be, Mr. Marrapit. Last night I dreamed that the Rose was found.” The encouraging woman leaned forward; said impressively, “I dreamed that I found her.”
Mr. Marrapit did not respond to her tone. Melancholy had this man in leaden grip. “I lose hope,” he said. “Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. Do not trust in dreams.”
“Oh, but I do!” Mrs. Major said with girlish impulsiveness. “I do. I always have. My dreams so often come true. Do not lose hope, Mr. Marrapit.” She continued with a beautiful air of timidity: “Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I know I am only here on sufferance, but your careworn air emboldens me to suggest—it might keep your poor mind from thinking—a game of backgammon such as we used to play before—” She sighed.
“I should like it,” Mr. Marrapit answered.
Mrs. Major arranged the board; drew Mr. Marrapit's favourite chair to the table; rattled the dice. After a few moves, “Oh, you're not beating me as you used to,” she said archly.
“I am out of practice,” Mr. Marrapit confessed.
Mrs. Major paused in the act of throwing her dice. “Out of practice! But surely Miss Humfray plays with you?”
“She does not.”