Like a good many of her sex, Mrs Nagger’s tongue was seldom at rest, though the words she uttered were but few, and generally limited to the exclamatory phrase, “More’s the pity!” followed by the confession, “That’s all I can say.”
I had, sometimes, cause to complain of the coffee, which the old housekeeper used to set before me—fancying it inferior to any, I had met elsewhere.
“Mrs Nagger,” I would say—laying an emphasis on the Mrs, of which she seemed no little vain—“I do not think this is coffee at all. What do you suppose it to be?”
“Indeed I don’t know, sir; and more’s the pity!”
“And this milk,” I would continue, “I fancy it must have been taken from an iron-tailed cow.”
“Yes, sir; and more’s the pity! That’s all I can say.”
I soon learnt that the old creature was quite right in her simple confession. “More’s the pity” was about all she could say; and I was not sorry that it was so.
One day I was honoured by a visit from Cannon, who, being some years older than myself, and having rather an elevated opinion of his own wisdom, volunteered to offer me a little advice.
“Stone,” said he, “why don’t you settle down, and live happily like your brother? If I had your opportunity of doing so, I wouldn’t put up with the miserable life I am leading, a week longer.”
“What opportunity do you speak of?”