“Oh yes; when he’s cooled down a bit, and had time to think; and then he’s very glad. He’s made no end of enemies through writing in a rage when I haven’t been by to stop the letters going; but he sha’n’t make any more if I can help it.”
“What a pity it is he has such a hasty temper,” I said.
“It is, because it gives people a wrong impression of him. But he can’t help it; it’s nervous irritability, and rages and furious letter-writing are only the symptoms.”
“Ah,” I said, “I know. He used to be like that when I was with him; but he’s all right when you know him.”
“Yes,” he said, “he’s like the gentleman in the song—
‘He’s all right when you know him;
But you’ve got to know him fust.’”
When I told Harry about the bromide and about the letters that weren’t posted, he said—
“I say, missis, do you think he’s all right?”
“What do you mean, Harry, by ‘all right’?”
“Why, all right here,” and he touched his forehead.