"Very dirty treatment, 'pon my word; though I'm not sure I don't sympathise with the fellow in warning off the women. But why stay in bed?"
"There are feelings,"—began the Admiral.
"Ah! to be sure—injured feelings—ungrateful country—blow, blow, thou winter wind, &c. So you take to bed, like the Roman gentleman who went too; forget the place. Gets rid of the women, too; nuisance—women—when you're upset; nonsense, that about pain and anguish playing the deuce, and a ministering angel thou—tommy-rot, I call it. Can't be bothered, now, in bed—turn round and snore; wife has hysterics—snore louder. Capital! I've a mind to try the same plan when Geraldine is fussing and fuming. These infernal women—"
I am sorry to say that the Admiral, instead of defending Mrs. Buzza, began to exculpate Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.
"But your wife is so charming, so—"
"Of course, my dear sir; so is Mrs. Buzza."
"She was termed the 'Belle of Portsmouth' at the Ball where I proposed to her," remarked the Admiral, with some complacency.
"To be sure; trust a sailor to catch the pretty girls—eh?"
The Admiral chuckled feebly.
"But these women—"