"If one might only say that of men," said I.
"And who is this General Ffrench?" I asked, as we walked along to meet him. "What regiments did he command?"
"Oh—he was only a Surgeon-General," said she.
"Then why not give him his proper title?"
"Not one of us has the courage, besides you forget the—the what-ever-you-call-it that we get out of it. It's not only what he calls himself, it's what we want to call him. We should be very unhappy if we couldn't say—General Ffrench."
I bent my head in comprehension, just catching the twinkle in her eye.
"Am I to begin to understand Ireland from that?" I asked.
"I wouldn't begin, if I were you," said she.
And then she told me more about him, how he lived with his widowed sister, combining his pension with the fragile income her husband had left to her; how she, too, cultivated a garden, but one whose produce was designed to bring them in a steady, but scarce-appreciable profit through the summer months.
"She sends round a little girl," said Bellwattle, "who has a bunch of flowers in one hand which she holds—conscupiously do you call it?"