The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.
Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin—it was a riveted cinch the party would die—and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.
But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.
As they stood together—Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly—looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.
“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.”
The Undertaker was silent.
Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.
Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.
“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.
Arabella softly put his arm away.