The curl went back into his breast. He sank into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud as little children do.
CHAPTER VII.
When Mrs. Quiggin came down to breakfast next morning, a change both in her appearance and in her manner caught the eye and ear of Jenny Crow. Her fringe was combed back from her forehead, and her speech, even in the first salutation, gave a delicate hint of the broad Manx accent. “Ho, ho! what’s this?” thought Jenny, and she had not long to wait for an answer.
An English waiter, who affected the ways of a French one, was fussing around with needless inquiries—would Madame have this; would Madame do that?—and when this person had scraped himself out of the room Mrs. Quiggin drew a long breath and said, “I don’t think I care so very much for this sort of thing after all, Jenny.”
“What sort of thing, Nelly?”
“Waiters and servants, and hotels and things,” said Nelly.
“Really!” said Jenny.
“It’s wonderful how much happier you are when you can be your own servant, and boil your own kettle and mash your own tea, and lay your own cloth, and clear away and wash up afterward.”
“Do you say so, Nelly?”