I
had a narrow escape with mine, though, the other day; I fell over a
hamper in the cellar, when I was getting it up to bring to
Battersby, and if I had not taken the greatest care the bottle would
certainly have been broken, but I saved it." And Gelstrap was standing
behind his chair all the time.
Nothing more happened to ruffle Mr. Pontifex, so we had a delightful
evening, which has often recurred to me while watching the
after-career of my godson.
I called a day or two afterwards and found Mr. Pontifex still at
Battersby, laid up with one of those attacks of liver and depression
to which he was becoming more and more subject. I stayed to
luncheon. The old gentleman was cross and very difficult; he could eat
nothing- had no appetite at all. Christina tried to coax him with a
little bit of the fleshy part of a mutton chop. "How in the name of
reason can I be asked to eat a mutton chop?" he exclaimed angrily;
"you forget, my dear Christina, that you have to deal with a stomach
that is totally disorganised," and he pushed the plate from him,
pouting and frowning like a naughty old child. Writing as I do by
the light of a later knowledge, I suppose I should have seen nothing
in this but the world's growing pains, the disturbance inseparable
from transition in human things.
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