“I wish we could,” cried the little woman, whose eyes seemed to say that her lips were not telling the truth.
“So do I,” cried Jem, tossing off his third cup of tea; and then to his little wife’s astonishment he took a thick slice of bread and butter in each hand, clapped them together as if they were cymbals, rose from the table and put on his hat.
“Where are you going, Jem?”
“Out.”
“What for?”
“To eat my bread and butter down on the quay.”
“But why, Jem?”
“’Cause there’s peace and quietness there.”
Bang! Went the door, and little Mrs Wimble stood gazing at it angrily for a few moments before sitting down and having what she called “a good cry,” after which she rose, wiped her eyes, and put away the tea things without partaking of any herself.
“Poor Jem!” she said softly; “I’m afraid I’m very unkind to him sometimes.”