Our Julia’s Lover.
“What have we done, wifie, that we should be consigned to such quarters as these?” said Captain Otway one day with a sigh. “I don’t think I’m too particular, but when I entered His Majesty’s service I did not know that I should be expected to play gaoler to the occupants of the Government Pandemonium.”
“It is a beautiful place,” said Mrs Otway laconically. “It was till we came and spoiled it. It is one great horror, ’pon my soul; and it is degrading our men to set them such duty as this.”
“Be patient. These troubles cure themselves.”
“But they take such a long time over it,” said the Captain. “It would be more bearable if Phil had not turned goose.”
“Poor Phil!” said Mrs Otway, with a sigh.
“Poor Phil? Pooh! you spoil the lad! I can’t get him out for a bit of shooting or hunting or fishing. Old Sir Gordon would often give us a cruise in his boat, but no: Phil must sit moonstruck here. The fellow’s spoiled! Can’t you knock all that on the head?”
“I perhaps could, but it must be a matter of time,” said Mrs Otway, going steadily on with her work, and mending certain articles of attire.
“But he must be cured. It is impossible.”
“Yes,” sighed Mrs Otway, “so I tell him. I wish it were not.”