“But what could Miss Gordon do?” asked Marie.
“Well, she could kinder interest him in things—don't you see? Him and I we ain't got much in common—except his clothes and that confounded beef-tea and slushin's. And then there's Mr. Gordon. He's a good hearty sort, he is. Comes galamphin' into the room, kickin' a couple of footstools and upsettin' things promiscuous. It cheers a invalid up, that sort o' thing.”
Marie laughed in an awkward, unwonted way.
“But it do, missis,” pursued Joseph, “wonderful; and I can't do it myself. I tried the other day, and master only thought I'd been drinkin'.”
“You are impatient,” said Marie. “He is better, I know. I can see it. You see it yourself—yes?”
“A bit—just a bit. But he wants some one of his own station in life, without offence, Mistress Marie. Some one as will talk with him about books and evenin' parties and things. And—” he paused reflectively, “and Miss Gordon would do that.”
There was a little silence, during which another pancake met its fate.
“You know,” said Joseph, with sudden confidence, “he's goin' to marry a young lady at home, in London; a young lady of fashion, as they say—one of them that's got one smile for men and another for women. Not his sort, as I should have thought myself, knowin' him as I do.”
“Then why does he marry her?” asked Marie.
“Ah!” Joseph rose, and stretched out his arms with a freedom from restraint learnt in the barrack-room. “There you're asking me more than I can tell you. I suppose—it's the old story—I suppose he thinks that she is his sort.”