“What?” asked Wiggleswick in the unmodulated tone of the deaf.

“Have you ever been married, Wiggleswick?”

“Heaps of times,” said the old man.

“Dear me,” said Septimus.  “Did you commit bigamy?”

“Bigamy?  No.  I buried ’em all honorable.”

“That,” said Septimus, “was very kind of you.”

“It was out of gratitude.”

“For their goodness?”

“No.  For being delivered from ’em.  I had a lot of experience before I could learn the blessedness of a single life.”

Septimus sighed.  “Yet it must be very nice to have a wife, Wiggleswick.”

“But ain’t yer got one?” bawled the disreputable body-servant.

“Of course, of course,” said Septimus hurriedly.  “I was thinking of the people who hadn’t.”

Wiggleswick approached his master’s bedside, with a mysteriously confidential air.

“Don’t you think we’re all cosy and comfortable here, sir?”

“Yes,” said Septimus dubiously.

“Well, I for one have nothing to complain of.  The vittles is good, and one sleeps warm, and one has one’s beer and ’baccy regular.  What more does a man want?  Not women.  Women’s a regrettable hincident.”

“Aren’t you cold standing there in your shirt sleeves, Wiggleswick?” asked Septimus, in his hesitating way.

Wiggleswick ignored the delicacy of the suggestion.

“Cold?  No.  If I was cold, I’d precious soon make myself warm.  Which I wish to remark, Mr. Dix, that now you’ve parted with the missus pro tem., don’t you think it’s more cosy and comfortable?  I don’t say but if she came here I’d do my best willingly.  I know my duty.  But, sir, a woman, what with her dusting and cleaning, and washing of herself in hot water, and putting flowers in mugs do upset things terrible.  I’ve been married oftener than you.  I know ’em.  Don’t you think we get on better, the two of us, as we are?”

“We get on very nicely,” said Septimus politely, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to do some cleaning and dusting to-day.  I’m awfully sorry to trouble you.  Mrs. Middlemist has returned to England, and may be down this afternoon.”

A look of dismay came over Wiggleswick’s crafty, weather-beaten face.

“Well, I’m jiggered.  I’m just jiggered,” said he.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” murmured Septimus.  “Bring me my shaving-water.”

“Are you going to get up?” asked Wiggleswick in a tone of disgusted incredulity.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be wanting breakfast.”

“Oh, no,” said Septimus, with the wan smile that sometimes flickered over his features, “afternoon tea will do—­with some bacon and eggs and things.”

The old man went out grumbling, and Septimus turned to his letter.  It was very kind of Emmy, he thought, to write to him so affectionately.