The price of fish in the
West Indies, or of deals in Liverpool, or the probable rise of flour
in the market, amuse the vacant mind of himself and his partner, not
his wife, for she is only his sleeping partner, but the wide-awake
partner of the firm, one of those who are embraced in the
comprehensive term the 'Co.' He is the depository of his secrets, the
other of his complaints.
"His wife is equally happy, she enjoys it uncommonly, for she knows it
will spite those horrid Mudges. She is determined not to invite them,
for they make too much noise, it gives her the headache, and their
flirting is too bad. Mrs White called them garrison hacks. And besides
(for women always put the real reason last--they live in a postscript)
they don't deserve it, for they left her girls out when they had the
lobster-spearing party by torch-light, with the officers of the
flag-ship, though that was no loss, for by all accounts it was a very
romping party, knocking off the men's hats, and then exchanging their
bonnets for them. And how any mother could allow her daughter to be
held round the waist by the flag-lieutenant, while she leaned over the
boat to spear the fish, is a mystery to her. The polka is bad enough,
but, to her mind, that is not decent, and then she has something to
whisper about it, that she says is too bad (this is a secret though,
and she must whisper it, for walls have ears, and who knows but trees
have, and besides, the good things are never repeated, but the too bad
always is), and Mrs Black lifts up both her hands, and the whites of
both eyes in perfect horror.
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