“Yes, sir,” says Bedford. “We had the carriage, and of course poor Mrs. L. was sent home by sea, and I brought home the young ones, and—and the rest of the family. I could say, Avanti! avanti! to the Italian postilions, and ask for des chevaux when we crossed the Halps—the Alps,—I beg your pardon, sir.”
“And you used to see the party to their rooms at the inns, and call them up in the morning, and you had a blunderbuss in the rumble to shoot the robbers?”
“Yes,” says Bedford.
“And it was a pleasant time?”
“Yes,” says Bedford, groaning, and hanging down his miserable head. “Oh, yes, it was a pleasant time.”
He turned away; he stamped his foot; he gave a sort of imprecation; he pretended to look at some books, and dust them with a napkin which he carried. I saw the matter at once. “Poor Dick!” says I.
“It’s the old—old story,” says Dick. “It’s you and the Hirish girl over again, sir. I’m only a servant, I know; but I’m a——. Confound it!” And here he stuck his fists into his eyes.
“And this is the reason you allow old Mrs. Prior to steal the sherry and the sugar?” I ask.
“How do you know that?—you remember how she prigged in Beak Street?” asks Bedford, fiercely.
“I overheard you and her just before dinner,” I said.