The old woman looked at him wistfully, and shook her head.
“No, sir, no,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he cried merrily. “Don’t you remember washing me when I was a little chap in a sort of tin bath with spots on it, red spots, and the inside was white, with shiny places, where the paint had come off.”
The old woman gazed at him wildly.
“You remember? The bottom curved up and as I stood on it, gave way, and then came up again with a loud bump.”
She still gazed at him silently, while he seemed to be trying to evoke old memories.
“Yes, to be sure, and you put me to bed in a great four-post affair, with heavy tassels and bobs round the top, and they swung to and fro, and—to be sure, yes, you set a great night-shade full of round holes on the floor, with a tin cup of water in it, and a long thin rushlight in the middle. Oh, yes, I remember seeing those holes reflected on the wall.”
“Yes, my dear,” cried the old woman excitedly, “and it has never been used since. No, Mr Hampton, sir, there are no long rushlights now.”
“Come, sir,” cried the young man excitedly, “we are beginning to feel bottom after all.”
“But—but—” faltered the old woman, and then stopped.