Triplet was one of those who see things roseate, Mrs. Triplet lurid.
“Madam,” said the poet, “for the first time in our conjugal career, your commands deviate so entirely from reason that I respectfully withdraw that implicit obedience which has hitherto constituted my principal reputation. I'm hanged if I do it, Jane!”
“Dear James, to oblige me!”
“That alters the case; you confess it is unreasonable?”
“Oh, yes! it is only to oblige me.
“Enough!” said Triplet, whose tongue was often a flail that fell on friend, foe and self indiscriminately. “Allow it to be unreasonable, and I do it as a matter of course—to please you, Jane.”
Accordingly the good soul wrapped it in green baize; but to relieve his mind he was obliged to get behind his wife, and shrug his shoulders to Lysimachus and the eldest girl, as who should say voila bien une femme votre mere a vous!
At last he was off, in high spirits. He reached Covent Garden at half-past ten, and there the poor fellow was sucked into our narrative whirlpool.
We must, however, leave him for a few minutes.