I had paused in indecision, when a woman standing at an open door behind me hailed another who was coming down the pavement with a little basket over her arm.
“Good-arternoon, Mrs. White,” said the first wife as the other came up. “And how did ye find your marn?”
I pricked up my ears.
“No better and no worse, Mrs. Catty, and tharnk ye kindly.”
“The horrers has left him, I’m told.”
“Ye’re told true, but little recommends the going. His face is the color o’ my apron here—an awesome sight. It’s the music membrim in his stommick, ’tis said that’s out o’ toon.”
“Ah, ma dear, I know it. It’s what the doctors call an orgin; and the pain is grinding.”
“God bless ye—it’s naught to what it were. ’Tis the colic o’ the mind he suffers, one may say.”
“Deary me, deary me! Poor Mr. White!”
“I left him a-sitting before the infirmary fire in a happythetic state, they names it, though to my mind he looked wretched.”