ngoffherspectacles)thatalittlepeatwrappedroundtheirisrootskeepsthemfromthefrost,andParrot'sgreatwhitesaleisTuesdaynext,"doremember,"—Mrs.FlandersknewpreciselyhowMrs.Jarvisfeltandhowinterestingherletterswere,aboutMrs.Jarvis,couldonereadthemyearin,yearout—theunpublishedworksofwomen,writtenbythefiresideinpaleprofusion,driedbytheflame,fortheblotting-paper'sworntoholesandthenibcleftandclotted.ThenCaptainBarfoot.Himshecalled"theCaptain,"spokeoffrankly,yetneverwithoutreserve.TheCaptainwasenquiringforheraboutGarfit'sacreadvisedchickenscouldpromiseprofitorhadthesciaticaorMrs.BarfoothadbeenindoorsforweeksortheCaptainsaysthingslookbad,politicsthatis,forasJacobknew,theCaptainwouldsometimestalk,astheeveningwaned,aboutIrelandorIndiaandthenMrs.FlanderswouldfallmusingaboutMorty,herbrother,lostalltheseyears—hadthenativesgothim,washisshipsunk—wouldtheAdmiraltytellher?—theCaptainknockinghispipeout,asJacobknew,risingtogo,stifflystretchingtopickupMrs.Flanders'swoolwhichhadrolledbeneaththechair.Talkofthechickenfarmcamebackandback,thewomen,evenatfifty,impulsiveatheart,sketchingonthecloudyfutureflocksofLeghorns,CochinChinas,OrpingtonslikeJacobintheblurofheroutlinebutpowerfulashewasfreshandvigorous,runningaboutthehouse,scoldingRebecca.
TheletterlayuponthehalltableFlorindacominginthatnighttookitupwithher,putitonthetableasshekissedJacob,andJacobseeingthehand,leftitthereunderthelamp,betweenthebiscuit-tinandthetobacco-box.Theyshutthebedroomdoorbehindthem.
Thesitting-roomneitherknewnorcared.Thedoorwasshutandtosupposethatwood,whenitcreaks,transmitsanythingsavethatratsarebusyandwooddryischildish.Theseoldhousesareonlybrickandwood,soakedinhumansweat,grainedwithhumandirt.Butifthepaleblueenvelopelyingbythebiscuit-boxhadthefeelingsofamother,theheartwastornbythelittlecreak,thesuddenstir.Behindthedoorwastheobscenething,thealarmingpresence,andterrorwouldcomeoverherasatdeath,orthebirthofachild.Better,perhaps,burstinandfaceitthansi