“But why, then, William,” she asked, timidly,
“have you changed your habits?”
“Hold your tongue!” he cried—“hold
your tongue, Jezabel! Have you not got over your
intoxication yet? For twelve years I certainly
followed the divine precept: increase and
multiply, once a year. But since then, I
have grown accustomed to something else, and I do not
wish to alter my habits.”
And the Reverend William Greenfield, Vicar of St.
Sampson’s, Tottenham, the saintly man whose
blood was inflamed by heating food and liquor, whose
ears were like full-blown poppies and who had a nose
like a tomato, left his wife and, as had been his
habit for four years, went to make love to Polly,
the servant.
“Now, Polly,” he said, “you are
a clever girl, and I mean, through you, to teach Mrs.
Greenfield a lesson she will never forget. I will
try and see what I can do for you.”
And in order to this, he called her his little Jezabel,
and said to her, with an unctuous smile:
“Call me Jeroboam! You don’t understand
why? Neither do I, but that does not matter.
Take off all your things, Polly, and show yourself
to Mrs. Greenfield.”
The servant did as she was bidden, and the result
was that Mrs. Greenfield never again hinted to her
husband the desirability of laying the foundation
of a thirteenth tribe.
It was a small drawing-room, with thick hangings,
and with a faint, judicious smell of flowers and scents
about it. A large fire was burning in the grate,
while one lamp, covered with a shade of old lace, on
the corner of the mantel-piece threw a soft light
onto the two persons who were talking.
She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with
white hair, but one of those adorable old ladies whose
unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest paper,
and scented, impregnated with perfume as the delicate
essences which she had used in her bath for so many
years had penetrated through the epidermis.
He was a very old friend, who had never married, a
constant friend, a companion in the journey of life,
but nothing else.
They had not spoken for about a minute, and they were
both looking at the fire, dreaming no matter of what,
in one of those moments of friendly silence between
people who have no need to be constantly talking in
order to be happy together, when suddenly a large log,
a stump covered with burning roots, fell out.
It fell over the fire-dogs into the drawing-room,
and rolled onto the carpet, scattering great sparks
all round. The old lady sprang up with a little
scream, as if she was going to run away, while he
kicked the log back onto the hearth and trod out all
the burning sparks with his boots.
When the disaster was repaired, there was a strong
smell of burning, and sitting down opposite to his
friend, the man looked at her with a smile, and said,
as he pointed to the log:
