“Mr Squills,” exclaimed my mother, and the bed-curtains trembled, “pray see that Mr Caxton does not set himself on fire;—and, Mr Squills, tell him not to be vexed and miss me.—I shall be down very soon—shan’t I?”
“If you keep yourself easy you will, ma’am.”
“Pray say so;—and, Primmins,—”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Every one, I fear, is neglecting your master. Be sure,—(and my mother’s lips approached close to Mrs Primmins’ ear,)—be sure that you—air his nightcap yourself.”
“Tender creatures those women,” soliloquised Mr Squills, as, after clearing the room of all present, save Mrs Primmins and the nurse, he took his way towards my father’s study. Encountering the footman in the passage,—“John,” said he, “take supper into your master’s room—and make us some punch, will you?—stiffish!”
CHAPTER II.
“Mr Caxton, how on earth did you ever come to marry?” asked Mr Squills, abruptly, with his feet on the hob, while stirring up his punch.
That was a home question, which many men might reasonably resent. But my father scarcely knew what resentment was.
“Squills,” said he, turning round from his books, and laying one finger on the surgeon’s arm confidentially,—“Squills,” said he, “I should be glad to know myself how I came to be married.”