“Well, I'd like to clap my eyes on Miss Gordon, just a stepping in at that open door--that's what we want. That sawbones feller is right when he says the progress will be slow. Slow! Slow ain't quite the word. No more ain't progress the word--that's my opinion. He just lies on that bed, and the most he can do is to skylark a bit with Nestorius. He don't take no interest in nothin', least of all in his victuals--and a man's in a bad way when he takes no interest in his victuals. Yes, I'll take another pancake, thankin' you kindly. You've got a rare light hand for pancakes. Rare--rare ain't quite the word.” “But what could Miss Gordon do?” asked Marie. “Well, she could kinder interest him in things--don't you see? Him and I we ain't got much in common--except his clothes and that confounded beef-tea and slushin's. And then there's Mr. Gordon. He's a good hearty sort, he is. Comes galamphin' into the room, kickin' a couple of footstools and upsettin' things promiscuous. It cheers a invalid up, that sort o' thing.” Marie laughed in an awkward, unwonted way. “But it do, missis,” pursued Joseph, “wonderful; and I can't do it myself. I tried the other day, and master only thought I'd been drinkin'.” “You are impatient,” said Marie. “He is better, I know. I can see it. You see it yourself--yes?” “A bit--just a bit. But he wants some one of his own station in life, without offence, Mistress Marie. Some one as will talk with him about books and evenin' parties and things. And--” he paused reflectively, “and Miss Gordon would do that.” There was a little silence, during which another pancake met its fate. “You know,” said Joseph, with sudden confidence, “he's goin' to marry a young lady at home, in London; a young lady of fashion, as they say--one of them that's got one smile for men and another for women. Not his sort, as I should have thought myself, knowin' him as I do.” “Then why does he marry her?” asked Marie. “Ah!” Joseph rose, and stretched out his arms with a freedom from restraint learnt in the barrack-room. “There you're asking me more than I can tell you. I suppose--it's the old story--I suppose he thinks that she is his sort.” CHAPTER XXIX. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE The pride that prompts the bitter jest. A space had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do “only a few steps” of her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.