“Strangers do not always like that sort of thing,” modestly remarked the doctor,—the “always” being peculiarly marked for emphasis. “Some will say, an inn should be an inn.”
“That's my view of it. What I say is this: I want my bit of fish, and my beefsteak, and my pint of wine, and I don't want to know that the landlord's grandfather entertained the king, or that his aunt was a lady-in-waiting. 'Be' as high as you like,' says I, 'but don't make the bill so,'—eh, Dill?” And he cackled the harsh ungenial laugh which seems the birthright of all sorry jesters; and the doctor gave a little laugh too, more from habit, however, than enjoyment.
“Do you know, Dill,” said the Major, disengaging himself from the arm which his lameness compelled him to lean on, and standing still in the pathway,—“do you know that I never reach thus far without having a sort of struggle with myself whether I won't turn back and go home again. Can you explain that, now?”
“It is the wound, perhaps, pains you, coming up the hill.”
“It is not the wound. It's that woman!”
“Miss Barrington?”
“Just so. I have her before me now, sitting up behind the urn there, and saying, 'Have you had tea, Major M'Cormick?' when she knows well she did n't give it to me. Don't you feel that going up to the table for your cup is for all the world like doing homage?”
“Her manners are cold,—certainly cold.”
“I wish they were. It's the fire that's in her I 'm afraid of! She has as wicked an eye in her head as ever I saw.”
“She was greatly admired once, I 'm told; and she has many remains of beauty.”