In point of fact they were as vain as a brace of peacocks, and as jealous as a domestic pet, if attention were shown by the young lady to any but themselves.
Cæsar, it may be observed, quickly learned to distinguish between the habits of Phillis and those of his masters. He never now offered to take the former into a public-house, while he ostentatiously, so to speak, paraded his knowledge of the adjacent bars when conveying the Twins.
One afternoon Phillis took it into her head to carry up tea to the Twins herself.
Cornelius was, as usual, sound asleep in an easy-chair, his head half resting upon one hand, and his pale cheek lit up with a sweet and childlike smile—he was dreaming of vintage wines. He looked sweetly poetical, and it was a thousand pities that his nose was so red. On the table lay his blotting-pad, and on it, clean and spotless, was the book destined to receive his epic poem.
Phillis touched the Divine Bard lightly on the shoulder.
He thought it was Jane; stretched, yawned, relapsed, and then awoke, fretful, like a child of five months.
"Give me the tea," he grumbled. "Too sweet again, I dare say, like yesterday."
"No sugar at all in it, Mr. Cornelius."
He sprang into consciousness at the voice.
"My dear Miss Fleming! Is it really you? You have condescended to visit the Workshop, and you find the Laborer asleep. I feel like a sentinel found slumbering at his post. Pray do not think—it is an accident quite novel to me—the exhaustion of continuous effort, I suppose."