'Law! (puff), law! (wheeze),' retorted Jog. 'I never want any law,' thinking of Smiler v. Jogglebury.
Half-past five o'clock came, and still no Sponge; and Mrs. Jog, thinking it would be better to arrange to have something hot for him when he came, than to do further battle with her husband, gave the bell the double ring indicative of 'bring dinner.'
'Nay (puff), nay (wheeze); when you have (gasp)ed so long,' growled Jog, taking the other tack, 'you might as well have (wheez)ed a little longer'—snorting into his frill as he spoke.
Mrs. Jogglebury said nothing, but slipped quietly out, as if after her keys, to tell Susan to keep so-and-so in the meat-screen, and have a few potatoes ready to boil against Mr. Sponge arrived. She then sidled back quietly into the room. Jog and she presently proceeded to that all-important meal. Jog blowing out the company candles on the side-table as he passed.
Jog munched away with a capital appetite; but Mrs. Jog, who took the bulk of her lading in at the children's dinner, sat trifling with the contents of her plate, listening alternately for the sound of horses' hoofs outside, and for nursery squalls in.
Dinner passed over, and the fruity port and sugary sherry soon usurped the places that stick-jaw pudding and cheese had occupied.
'Mr. (puff) Sponge must be (wheeze), I think,' observed Jog, hauling his great silver watch out, like a bucket, from his fob, on seeing that it only wanted ten minutes to seven.
'Oh, Jog!' exclaimed Mrs. Jog, clasping her beautiful hands, and casting her bright beady eyes up to the low ceiling.
'Oh, Jog! What's the matter now? (puff—wheeze—gasp),' exclaimed our friend, reddening up, and fixing his stupid eyes intently on his wife.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Mrs. Jog, unclasping her hands, and bringing down her eyes.