"An' now," resumed 'Lizabeth, when her visitor was seated by the fire pulling off her damp stockings, "there's rum an' there's tea. Which will you take to warm yoursel'?"
Mrs. William elected to take rum; and 'Lizabeth noted that she helped herself with freedom. She made no comment, however, but set about making tea for herself; and, then, drawing up her chair to the table, leant her chin on her hand and intently regarded her visitor.
"Where's William?" inquired Mrs. Transom.
"Up-stairs."
"Askin' his father's pardon?"
"Well," 'Lizabeth grimly admitted, "that's like enough; but you needn't fret about them."
Mrs. William showed no disposition to fret. On the contrary, under the influence of the rum she became weakly jovial and a trifle garrulous— confiding to 'Lizabeth that, though married to William for four years, she had hitherto been blessed with no children; that they lived in barracks, which she disliked, but put up with because she doted on a red coat; that William had always been meaning to tell his father, but feared to anger him, "because, my dear," she frankly explained, "I was once connected with the stage"—a form of speech behind which 'Lizabeth did not pry; that, a fortnight before Christmas, William had made up his mind at last, "'for,' as he said to me, 'the old man must be nearin' his end, and then the farm'll be mine by rights;'" that he had obtained his furlough two days back, and come by coach all the way to this doleful spot—for doleful she must call it, though she would have to live there some day—with no shops nor theayters, of which last it appeared Mrs. Transom was inordinately fond. Her chatter was interrupted at length with some abruptness.
"I suppose," said 'Lizabeth meditatively, "you was pretty, once."
Mrs. Transom, with her hand on the bottle, stared, and then tittered.
"Lud! my dear, you ain't over-complimentary. Yes, pretty I was, though
I say it."