“You may have it yourself some day,” said this lady, who spoke quietly and deliberately, but with fluency, although her accent was foreign. “When we are growing a little old our bones and nerves they will not be young still. You have your rheumatism, I have my tic—the pain in my cheek and mouth—a great deal worse, as you will find, whenever you taste of it, as it may happen. Your tea is good—after a journey tea is so refreshing. I cannot live without my cup of tea, though it is not good for my tic. So, ha, ha, he-ha! There is the tea already in my cheek—oh! Well, you will be so good to give me my bag.”
Mildred looked about, and found a small baize bag with an umbrella and a bandbox.
“There’s a green bag I have here, ma’am.”
“A baize bag?”
“Yes, ’m.”
“Give it to me. Ha, yes, my bibe—my bibe—and my box.”
So this lady rummaged and extricated a pipe very like a meerschaum, and a small square box.
“Tibbacca!” exclaimed Mrs. Tarnley. The stranger interpreted the exclamation, without interrupting her preparations.
“Dobacco? no, better thing—some opium. You are afraid Mrs. Harry Fairfield, she would smell id. No—I did not wish to disturb her sleeb. I am quite private here, and do not wish to discover myself. Ya, ya, ya, hoo!”
It was another twinge.