“Ah—there speaks my own good little wife.”
“I mean, not if it is that sort.”
“What sort, dear wife?”
“The sort that reminds people whenever I come that it is time they went.”
She looked at me with the odd look that I observed for the first time during our English holiday. Often have I seen it since, but I cannot recollect having seen it before. I, noticing that somehow we did not understand each other, patted her kindly on the shoulder, for, of course, she cannot always quite follow me, though I must say she manages very creditably as a rule.
“Well, well,” I said, patting her, “we will not quibble. It is a good little wife, is it not?” And I raised her chin by means of my forefinger, and kissed her.
This, however, is a digression. I suppose it is because I am unfolding my literary wings for the first time that I digress so frequently. At least I am aware of it, which is in itself, I should say, a sign of literary instinct. My Muse has been, so to speak, kept in bed without stopping till middle age, and is now suddenly called upon to get up and go for a walk. Such a muse must inevitably stagger a little at first. I will, however, endeavour to curb these staggerings, for I perceive that I have already written more than can be conveniently read aloud in one evening, and though I am willing the same friends should come on two, I do not know that I care to see them on as many as three. Besides, think of all the sandwiches.
(This last portion of the narrative, from “one evening” to “sandwiches” will, of course, be omitted in public.)
I will, therefore, not describe my conversation with Lord Sigismund in the ditch beyond saying that it was extremely interesting, and conducted on his side (and I hope on mine) with the social skill of a perfect gentleman.
It was brought to an end by the arrival of Jellaby and his dog, which was immediately pounced on by Lord Sigismund’s dog, who very properly resented his uninvited approach, and they remained inextricably mixed together for what seemed an eternity of yells, the yells rending the Sabbath calm and mingling with the distant church bells, and all proceeding from Jellaby’s dog, while Lord Sigismund’s, a true copy of his master, did that which he had to do with the silent self-possession of, if I may so express it, a dog of the world.