"What—Moulder's asleep is he?" she said as she entered the room. "I suppose that's as good as a pair of gloves, any way."
"He ain't just very well," said Mrs. Moulder, winking at her friend; "he's tired after a long journey."
"Oh-h! ah-h!" said Mrs. Smiley, looking down upon the sleeping beauty, and understanding everything at a glance. "It's uncommon bad for him, you know, because he's so given to flesh."
"It's as much fatigue as anything," said the wife.
"Yes, I dare say;" and Mrs. Smiley shook her head. "If he fatigues himself so much as that often he'll soon be off the hooks."
Much was undoubtedly to be borne from two hundred a year in a brick-field, especially when that two hundred a year was coming so very near home; but there is an amount of impertinent familiarity which must be put down even in two hundred a year. "I've known worse cases than him, my dear; and that ended worse."
"Oh, I dare say. But you're mistook if you mean Smiley. It was 'sepilus as took him off, as everybody knows."
"Well, my dear, I'm sure I'm not going to say anything against that. And now, John, do help her off with her bonnet and shawl, while I get the tea-things."
Mrs. Smiley was a firm set, healthy-looking woman of—about forty. She had large, dark, glassy eyes, which were bright without sparkling. Her cheeks were very red, having a fixed settled colour that never altered with circumstances. Her black wiry hair was ended in short crisp curls, which sat close to her head. It almost collected like a wig, but the hair was in truth her own. Her mouth was small, and her lips thin, and they gave to her face a look of sharpness that was not quite agreeable. Nevertheless she was not a bad-looking woman, and with such advantages as two hundred a year and the wardrobe which Mrs. Moulder had described, was no doubt entitled to look for a second husband.
"Well, Mr. Kenneby, and how do you find yourself this cold weather? Dear, how he do snore; don't he?"