"And I have a log-cabin, a nest to keep warm for my big true Blackguard, and thanks to say on my knees to God for love. What does it matter all this stuff in the paper?" She laid it on her lap, watching his comic clumsiness at the peeling. "The world outside doesn't matter one little bit to us."
"Read anyway," he said, grinning, "or you'll drop into poetry next."
"'Horrible Murder,'" she read, yawning. "Oh, I wish it was bedtime. 'Suicide of a Vegetarian.' 'Fuss, Box, & Co. in Bankruptcy.' 'The Railroad Horror.' Hello, here, under the Cavalry heading, there's Dandy Irvine—Sergeant Irvine—got a commission. They've made him an Inspector."
"Good old Dandy! We'll drink his health next time I can buy the ingredients."
"I don't want ingredients," she said, pouting; "he's such a little dear, and you can never keep tidy, however I dust you and scrub. Must I read any more? Well, here's the British Empire column. 'London, February 6—Death of the Spanish Ambassador. We regret to say,'"—
The Blackguard whistled softly.
"Well," she looked up, "what's the matter? Did you know him?"
"Why, that's the Snob."
"The what?"
"My brother. I asked him once whether he'd have a long life or his habits. He had the habits, and I hope he enjoyed them. Poor Snob, I guess he's left me the reversion of his debts." The Blackguard finished peeling the last potato, and handed over the pan. "Will your Grace be pleased to put these potatoes away?"