To her guest Mrs. Bourne intimated that she was au courant with the outline of his little history, and was kind and comforting after her own elder-sister fashion.
"Yes, this time last year you would not have known me!" he said, "I was as strong as a horse, and fairly well off. Now, I am horribly poor and look like some sickly, broken-down loafer, and—it's more or less my own doing!"
"Nonsense," she answered, "your accident has made you take gloomy views of yourself; in another month you will be all right;—this air has worked wonders, and if you really are hard up, why not start coffee?"
"Yes, as a creeper?" and he laughed, "that's what you call a beginner, don't you? Well, I'll think of it, Mrs. Bourne. I must say, I like an open-air life, and Tom will shove me along. I might do worse."
To which she replied, "If you ask me, I don't think you can do better. Coffee has been my friend!"
About this time, Anthony came to his master with a grave, portentous air, and said:
"I beg your pardon, saar, that Chinna-Sawmy boy no use here, and doing no good."
"Oh, yes, he helps Miss Beamish, she likes him; he's a smart little chap. I like him too."
"Still better go," rejoined Anthony, unmoved.