“Look here, my love,” said plump little Mr Gambart to his plump little wife, bustling into the parlour with an open letter in his hand, “isn’t this vexatious! Just listen—it’s from McLeod:—
“‘My dear Gambart,—I take the opportunity of Jonas Bellew leaving me to write a line in reply to your last, which was brought on to me by the Indian. You will be sorry to learn that the Betsy of Plymouth, in which all my goods were embarked, is lying here a total wreck, and the goods have been washed out of her—not a bale or cask saved! But, worse than that, poor Roderick has been badly injured in getting ashore, and now lies here unable to move. Many of the poor fellows who composed the crew have been lost, and those saved are in a sad condition. I was sorry to hear of Loch Dhu being sold, but now that my fortunes have been so utterly and literally wrecked it is perhaps as well as it is. I’m sorry, however, that you bought Barker’s Mill for me. In the circumstances I will find it difficult to repay you for a long time to come.’
“Now,” said Gambart, “isn’t this vexing? I thought it would please him so much, for of course he knows that I would never press him for the money.”
“Did you tell him,” asked Mrs Gambart, “that in the event of his not wanting the mill you would gladly take it yourself?”
“No, I didn’t think that necessary.”
“Didn’t I,” continued the little lady, pursing her little mouth, “didn’t I advise you to do so at the time?”
“You certainly did, my dear.”
“And did I not,” continued Mrs Gambart, severely, “advise you, further, not to keep Mr Redding in ignorance as to who was the late owner of Loch Dhu, for fear of mischief coming of it?”
“Yes, my love,” answered Gambart, with ever-increasing humility, “but no mischief has come of it apparently, and I thought—”
“Oh yes,” interrupted his lady, “I know you thought. You always think when you shouldn’t, and you never think when you should.”