"Beauclerk!--what is the use of going on like that?--do you want to break my heart?"
"Wife, I believe mine's broken."
Mr. Fletcher leaned his face against the wall just where he was standing, his long, lean frame shaken with his sobbing.
"Beauclerk! Beauclerk! don't! don't!"
Hard-faced Mrs. Fletcher went to her husband, and took him in her arms, and soothed him as though he were a child of five. Mr. Fletcher looked up. His face was ghastly with the effort he made at self-control.
"I think I will have some supper; perhaps it will do me good,"
Husband and wife sat down to supper. There were the remains of a leg of mutton, a little glass jar half-filled with pickled cabbage, a small piece of cheese, and bread. Mrs. Fletcher put some mutton on her husband's plate, and a smaller portion on her own. Mr. Fletcher swallowed one or two mouthfuls, but apparently it went against the grain.
"I can't eat it," he said, pushing away his plate; "I'm not hungry."
"Won't you have some cheese? it's very nice cheese."
"I'm not hungry," repeated her husband.