"Simpson," I replied, in, I must confess, a tremulous sort of way, "is a very nice fellow, and a capital shot."
"I perceive that you have asked him to shoot."
"Only for a day and a night, my dear."
"Only for a day and a night! And where is Willie to sleep, and where is Blossie to sleep? You know the dear children are in the strangers' rooms for change of air, and really I must say it is very thoughtless of you;" and my wife's nez retroussé went up at a very acute angle, whilst a general hardness of expression settled itself upon her countenance, like a plaster cast.
I had a bad case. I had been dining with a friend, my friend Captain de Britska. I had taken sherry with my soup, hock with my fish, champagne with my entrée, and a nip of brandy before my claret. What I imbibed after the Lafitte I scarcely remember. Mr Simpson was of the party, and sat next to me. He forced a succession of cigars into my mouth, and subsequently a mixture of tobacco, a special thing. (What smoker, by the way, hasn't a special thing in the shape of a mixture? what gourmet has no special tip as regards salad-dressing?) We spoke of shooting. He asked me if I had any. I replied in the affirmative, expressing a hope that he would at some time or other practically discuss that fact. Somehow I was led into a direct invitation, and this was the outcome. I had committed myself beneath my friend's mahogany, and under the influence of my friend's generous wine. I was in a corner; and now, ye gods! I had to face Mrs Smithe. There are moments when a man's wife is simply awful. Snugly entrenched behind the unassailable line of defence, duty, and with such "Woolwich Infants" as her children to hurl against you, which she does in a persistent remorseless way, she is a terror. No man, be he as brave as Leonidas or as cool as Sir Charles Coldstream, is proof against the partner of his bosom when she is on the rampage; and, as I have already observed, Mrs S. was "end on."
"Another change will do the children good, Maria," I observed.
"Yes, I suppose so. It will do Willie's cold good to sleep in your dressing-room without a fire, won't it? and Blossie can have a bed made up in the bath. Is this Mr Simpson married or single?"
Hinc illæ lachrymæ. I couldn't say. I never asked him.
"What does it matter?" I commenced, with a view to diplomatising.
"Yes, but it does," she interposed. "If he is a respectable married man, which I very much doubt, he must have dear Willie's room."