'But I shall mind the door!' exclaims Jim Naldret, who is endowed with a large organ of combativeness, and never can be induced to shirk an argument. 'The architect he made this door for warm weather. Then it's all very well. But in this weather, it's a mistake, that's what it is. Directly you open it, comes a blast cold enough to freeze one. I ain't swearing, mother, because I say blast.'
This small pleasantry restores his equanimity, and he repeats it with approving nods; but it produces little effect upon his wife, who says,
'Will you wash your hands and face, father, instead of maudlin?'
'All right, all right, mother! Bring the basin in here, and I'll soon sluice myself.'
Mrs. Naldret, going to their bedroom, which is at the back of the parlour, to get the soap and water, calls out softly from that sanctuary,
'Bessie's here, father.'
'Ah,' he says, rubbing his knuckles before the fire. 'Where is she?'
'Up-stairs in George's room. She'll be down presently. She's pretty low in spirits, father.'
'I suppose you've been having a cry together, mother,' By this time Mrs. Naldret has brought in a basin of water and a towel, which she places on a wooden chair, 'I daresay George'll pipe his eye a bit too, when he says good-bye to some of his mates. Ugh! the water is cold!'