“I vow and protest, I expect that next!” exclaimed Mrs. Fum, as folding her arms, and fixing her eyes rigidly on the grate, she sat, the ideal of abused and injured benevolence. “Indeed, Mr. Dempsey,” said she, after a long silence on both sides, “it would be a great breach of the regard many years of intimacy with you has formed, if I did not say, that your affections are misplaced. Beauty is a perishable gift.”
Paul looked at Mrs. Fumbally, and seemed struck with the truth of her remark.
“But the qualities of the miud, Mr. Dempsey, those rare endowments that make happy the home and hearth. You 're fond of beef hash with pickled onions,” said she, smiling sweetly; “well, you shall have one to-day.”
“Good creature!” muttered Paul, while he pressed her hand affectionately. “The best heart in the world!”
“Ah, yes,” sighed the lady, half soliloquizing, “conformity of temper,—the pliancy of the reed,—the tender attachment of the ivy.”
Paul coughed, and drew himself up proudly, and, as if a sudden thought occurred to him that he resembled the oak of the forest, he planted his feet firmly, and stood stiff and erect.
“You are not half careful enough about yourself, Mr. Dempsey,—never attend to changing your damp clothes,—and I assure you the climate here requires it; and when you come in cold and wet, you should always step in here, on your way upstairs, and take a little something warm and cordial. I don't know if you approve of this,” suiting the action to the words. Mrs. Fum had opened a small cupboard in the wall, and taken out a quaint-looking flask, and a very diminutive glass.
“Nectar, by Jove,—downright nectar!”
“Made with some white currants and ginger,” chimed in Mrs. Fum, simply, as if to imply, “See what skill can effect; behold the magic power of intelligence!”
“White currants and ginger!” echoed Paul, holding out the glass to be refilled.