They ate their meal, which was of a solid character and the last serious food for the day, since they had given up taking supper and found themselves better without it. Then the tea things were cleared, and hardly had the door shut when Mr. Huxam began.
"It's just fifty-three years ago, Judith, since I, as a lad, took the first telegram that ever came to Brent out to Beggar's Bush to the master of the Otter Hounds, I was eleven years old at the time."
"And sixty-four now," she said.
"Yes, we're both sixty-four, and mark this—young for sixty-four. Thanks to our manner of life, I wouldn't say that either of us need count more than sixty in the things that matter."
"So far as this world's concerned, you're right," she admitted.
"Very well then. And now don't get upset or nothing like that; but I'm going to say this: that taking one thing with another, I feel terrible doubtful if our life in this residence is all it might be, or even all it should be."
Mrs. Huxam stared at him with deep interest.
"I half thought your views had settled down. When did this come over you?" she asked.
"It came, as such things do come—gradual. Here a little and there a little, till I was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, Judy. Granted for the sake of argument—though I won't grant it for any other sake—that we was a bit over-moiled with work and worry, and wanted to get away from the shop and the post-office for a rest and refreshment. Granted we did—what then?"
"Then we've had it," she declared. "We've had a year of it."