A red-faced woman here made her appearance with a plateful of the sweets that Mr Jabez had named, and she rather scowled at me, and banged the plate down hard enough almost to break it as she whisked out of the room again and slammed the door.
“Now, Grace, fall to, as they say in copy about feasts. See that woman?”
“Yes, Mr Jabez.”
“She’s a Tartar, she is. I live here because that woman acts as a lighthouse to me.”
“A lighthouse, sir? Because she has got such a red face?”
“Get out! No, you young joker. A warning, a beacon, a bell-buoy, a light-ship, to warn me off the rocks and shoals of matrimony. I should have married, Grace, years ago, if I hadn’t seen what a life a woman can lead a man. She has nearly made her husband a lunatic.”
“Indeed, Mr Jabez?”
“Well, say imbecile. Peg away, my boy,” he continued, laughing; “these figs are beautiful. Peel’s good, too.”
So it seemed, for Mr Jabez was feasting away with great gusto, and eating two of everything to my one.
“Yes, sir, I should have been married and a poor man, instead of comparatively rich—at least, was. Money matters are rather awkward just now.”