(“What have the children got for dinner to-day?”)
—“it is this: return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will find inside——”
(“A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner, too.”)
The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at the top of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with the patience of an angel; but she began—and who can wonder?—to lose it at last.
“It is really impossible, my dear,” she said, rising from her chair, “to continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in talking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on—I cannot, indeed.”
Just as I was apologizing to my sweet friend for the second time, I observed, to my great relief (having my eyes still on the window), that the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel round again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate.
I waited until he had his hand on the lock to open it; and then, when I felt that we were quite safe, I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable neighbor had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open the window again to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige me by resuming the charming conversation.
“Where was I?” inquired my distinguished friend.
“You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write inside your inclosure,” I answered.
“Ah, yes—so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother’s partiality, I am sure—but I think I never saw her look so lovely, so mournfully lovely, I should say, as when she was writing those last lines to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes as I looked at her sweet, pale cheeks; and I thought to myself——”