Here we may leave them for a while and return to the Admiral, whom we left in the act of plunging furiously into his own house. It was not the habit of that fiery little tar to hide his emotions from the wife of his bosom.
"Emily!" he bellowed, "Em-i-ly, I say! Come down this instant."
The three Misses Buzza at the parlour window knew the tone, and shuddered: Mrs. Buzza, up-stairs, heard, trembled, and obeyed.
"Yes, darling. What is it?"
"Fill the warming-pan at once. I'm going to bed."
"To bed, love!"
"Yes, to bed. Don't I speak plainly enough? To bed, ma'am, to bed, and at once."
"You are upset, dearest; be cool, I implore you."
"Be cool! Be coo'—Don't hector me, ma'am, but fetch that warming-pan at once. I'll teach you about being cool! Sophy, pull off my boots."
They obeyed. The warming-pan was brought—an enormous engine, big enough to hold the Admiral himself—and the bed heated. The Admiral undressed, and, himself a warming-pan of rage, plunged between the sheets. It was a wonder the bed-clothes were not on fire.