"And let the water be boiling—not with the chill off."
"Yes, sir."
When somewhat late Mr. Woolfield retired to his room he found, as he had feared, that his late wife was there before him. She lay in the bed with her mouth snapped, her eyes like black balls, staring at him.
"My dear," said Benjamin, "I hope you are more comfortable."
"I'm cold, deadly cold."
"But I trust you are enjoying the hot bottles."
"I lack animal heat," replied the late Mrs. Woolfield.
Benjamin fled the room and returned to his study, where he unlocked his spirit case and filled his pipe. The fire was burning. He made it up. He would sit there all night During the passing hours, however, he was not left quite alone. At intervals the door was gently opened, and the night-capped head of the late Mrs. Woolfield was thrust in.
"Don't think, Benjamin, that your engagement will lead to anything," she would say, "because it will not. I shall stop it."
So time passed. Mr. Woolfield found it impossible to escape this persecution. He lost spirits; he lost flesh.