“Well say away,” I said very drowsily.
“Well, dear,” said Mrs Scribe, “You see mamma’s coming.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said in an undertone.
“For shame,” said Mrs S. “How can you talk in that way, when you know what interest she takes in you, and how she praises all you write. No, now, it isn’t gammon, as you so politely call it. Well, and if she did say you always introduced ‘the wife,’ or ‘the missus,’ so often, what then? You would not have her flatter you, and say what she didn’t mean, would you now, dear?”
I couldn’t help it, for the wind was easterly and I was very tired, so I only said, “Bother!” But there, I dare not commit to paper all that was said to me upon the subject. A word or two will suffice upon a matter familiar to every Benedict.
“Ah, sir,” said Mrs S, “you did not say ‘bother’ after that walk when we gathered cowslips, and I gave you leave to speak to mamma. What did you say then?”
“Too long ago to recollect,” I said.
“No it is not, sir. You said—”
“There, for goodness sake, don’t be casting all one’s follies in one’s teeth,” I exclaimed.
“Well then, just listen quietly to what I was going to say about mamma coming.”