Flash.—Ask him to read. Nothing so pleasant as the sound of some one reading poetry when you're very tired, and are sitting before a good fire. Light a pipe as an aid to listening comfortably. Better than going to bed. Besides, if he reads, it's his fault that we don't go to bed early, as we told Mrs. Pendell we would.
He reads aloud. I interrupt him occasionally (opening my eyes to do so), just to show I am attending, and twice I dispute the propriety of his emphasis; but I don't sustain my side of the argument, from a feeling that to close my eyes and be droned to sleep, is preferable to straining every nerve in order to talk and keep awake.
11 o'clock, P.M.—Pendell stops, and says, "Why, you're asleep!" I reply that he is mistaken (having, in fact, just been awoke by feeling as if a spring had given way at the nape of my neck), but I own, candidly, to feeling a little tired.
"Um!" says Pendell, and puts his selection for a Penny Reading away. Bed.
Morning.—Am aroused by Pendell, who is always fresh. "Lovely morning," he says, opening the curtains. [Note.—When you're only one quarter awake there's something peculiarly obtrusive in any remark about the beauty of the day. To a person comfortably in bed and wishing to remain there, the state of the weather is comparatively uninteresting, unless it's dismally foggy or thoroughly rainy, when, in either case, you can congratulate yourself upon your cleverness and forethought in not having got up.] "Is it?" I ask. Through the window I see only mist and drizzle.
"Just the morning for otter-hunting!" exclaims Pendell, enthusiastically. Then, as he's leaving the room, he turns, and says, "O, by the way, I've just remembered that Old Ruddock's pretty sure to be out with the hounds. He's great fun out hunting."
This stirs me into something like exertion. Otters and Ruddock. Ruddock, during a check, setting the field in a roar.
At Breakfast.—"Um," says Pendell, thinking over something as he cuts a ham, "we shan't want to take anything with us, because Old Penolver gives us lunch. He's a picture of an Old English Squire is Penolver. Quite a picture of a—um—yes——" here he apparently considers to himself whether he has given a correct definition of Penolver or not. He seems satisfied, and closes his account of him by repeating, "Yes—um—yes—an Old English Squire, you know—quite a character in his way," (I thought so,) "and you'll have pasties and cider."
"Pasties!" I exclaim. The word recalls Bluff King Hal's time, the jollifications—by my halidame!—gadso!—crushing a cup, and so forth. Now I have the picture before me (in my mind's eye) of the Old English Squire, attended by grooms bearing pasties and flagons, meeting the Otter Hunters with spears and dogs. Good! Excellent! I feel that My Health will be benefited by the air of the olden time. And perhaps by the pasties.
"Do any ladies come?" I ask.