“Well, I’d better go home before I forget them,” said Osbert. “Let’s see—Osbert, Edild, Agnes, and Derette—and the cat is Gib. I think I shall remember. But I haven’t had your wife’s.”
“I’ll walk back with you,” said Stephen, evading the query; and they went out together.
“Stephen, lad,” said Osbert, when they had left the house, “I’ve a notion thou dost not want to tell thy wife’s name. Is it true, or it’s only my fancy?”
“Have you?” responded Stephen shortly.
“Ay, I have; and if it be thus, say so, but don’t tell me what it is. It’s nought to me; so long as she makes thee a good wife I care nought who she is; but if I know nothing, I can say nothing. Only, if I knew thou wouldst as lief hold thy peace o’er it, I would not ask thee again.”
“She is the best wife and the best woman that ever breathed,” replied Stephen earnestly: “and you are right, old man—I don’t want to tell it.”
“Then keep thine own counsel,” answered his brother. “Farewell, and God speed thee!”
Stephen turned back, and Osbert stood for a moment looking after him. “If I thought it possible,” said the porter to himself,—“but I don’t see how it could be any way—I should guess that the name of Stephen’s wife began and ended with an e. I am sure he was set on her once—and that would account for any reluctance to name her: but I don’t see how it could be. Well! it doesn’t matter to me. It’s a queer world this.”
With which profoundly original and philosophical remark, Osbert turned round and went home.
“Well, what is it?” cried Anania, the moment he entered.