“‘To Sergeant Revitts, VV Division, Caroline Street, Pentonville.’”
“‘Sergeant Revitts!’” he said, rising and buttoning up his coat, but pausing to reach down his stiff, shiny stock and buckle it on. “‘Sergeant Revitts,’ if you please; and if,” he said, walking up and down the room excitedly, “it ain’t Inspector Revitts some day, and after that Sooperintendent and a sword, my name ain’t Bill.”
“Hurrah!” I cried; “I am glad;” and then I caught his arm, for, poor fellow, he was very weak yet, and needed the chair Mary placed for him to sit down.
“And you so ill and weak still, and talking about such stuff,” she cried hastily.
“I’m getting round fast enough,” said Revitts; “it was only the ‘sergeant’ took my breath away a bit; that’s all. It’s all right, Antony. It’s a-coming off, ain’t it, Mary, my dear?”
“I am glad, Bill. But they couldn’t have made a better man a sergeant if they’d tried,” said Mary evasively.
“I said it was a-coming off,” said Revitts, “ain’t it?”
He leaned forward, and looked at Mary; she, with the stocking on one arm, and the long darning-needle in her hand, held it as if to keep him off. I saw Mary’s scarlet face gradually raised till her eyes met his, and then a soft, foolish-looking smile began to dawn upon one corner of her lips, pass over to the other, and gradually make them open to show her white teeth, before running right up, and half-closing her eyes. The same kind of smile, but much larger, appeared on Revitts’ face; and there they sat, smiling at one another, till I took up my cap and went out—even my exit being unnoticed—for another good servant was veritably lost to society. Mary’s “tantrums” were at an end.