But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed. During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was at dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation and dismay by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.
Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the invigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls, “Old girl!” and winks monitions to her to find out what’s the matter.
“Why, George!” says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle. “How low you are!”
“Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not.”
“He ain’t at all like Bluffy, mother!” cries little Malta.
“Because he ain’t well, I think, mother,” adds Quebec.
“Sure that’s a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!” returns the trooper, kissing the young damsels. “But it’s true,” with a sigh, “true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right!”
“George,” says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, “if I thought you cross enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier’s wife—who could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done it almost—said this morning, I don’t know what I shouldn’t say to you now.”