CHAPTER XXXVII
POLITICS
Next day, the spring weather being mild and clawless, like a couchant cat, Mynheer Mopius arrived at Horstwyk station. He wore a silk neckerchief and new galoshes, for Harriet was a careful wife to him in a way. He had not felt in good health of late, and his leathery cheek had deepened to gamboge.
“Be very cautious what you eat, Jacóbus,” Harriet had said as he was preparing to depart. “If you partake of anything greasy, you are sure to be ill again.”
“I don’t care,” replied Jacóbus, recklessly. “I’d rather die than not eat. What’s the use of living if there’s nothing left to live for? I’d rather die at once than vegetate for thirty years on slops. Pass me the pickles. I could wager that you make believe I’m the baby that hasn’t come!”
Harriet smiled thinly. The greatest disappointment which can befall a woman lay upon her. Stowed away up-stairs were a pink berceaunette and a quantity of little garments that had never been used.
“There’s not much chance of my getting rich food at the Horst,” continued Mopius. “Ha! See? I should think they weigh out their butter there.”
“Poor Ursula!” said Harriet, softly. After a few moments of silence, she added, “It was such a pretty little boy.”