’You mean that’——­

‘As I said, my household gods are shattered, even in the shrine!’

It was obvious that the twang of this fine phrase gave Jack uncommon pleasure.  He repeated it again and again under his breath, flourishing his pipe, so as, allegorically and metaphorically, to set forth the extent of his desolation.

‘In other words,’ I went on, ’there has been an—­an execution’——­

’And the brokers have not left a stick.  But what of that?  These, are accidents which will occur in the best’——­

’And Mrs’——­

’Oh!  She, you know, is apt to be a little downhearted at times; and empty rooms somehow act on her idiosyncrasy.  A good woman, but weak.  So she’s gone for the present to her sisters; and as for the girls, why, Emily is with her mother, and Jane is at the Joneses.  Very decent people the Joneses.  I put Jones up to a thing which would have made his fortune the week before last; but he wouldn’t have it.  Jones is slow, and—­well——­ And Clara is with the Hopkinses:  I believe so, at least; and Maria is——­ Confound me if I know where Maria is; but I suppose she’s somewhere.  Her mother managed it all:  I didn’t interfere.  And so now, as you know the best and the worst, let’s come to dinner.’

An empty house is a dismal thing—­almost as dismal as a dead body.  The echo, as you walk, is dismal; the blank, stripped walls, shewing the places where the pictures and the mirrors have been, are dismal; the bits of straw and the odds and ends of cord are dismal; the coldness, the stillness, the blankness, are dismal.  It is no longer a habitation, but a shell.

In the dining-room stood a small deal-table, covered with a scanty cloth, like an enlarged towel; and a baked joint, with the potatoes under it, smoked before us.  The foaming pewter-can stood beside it, with a couple of plates, and knives and steel forks.  Two Windsor chairs, of evident public-house mould, completed the festive preparations and the furniture of the room.  The whole thing looked very dreary; and as I gazed, I felt my appetite fade under the sense of desolation.  Not so Happy Jack.  ’Come, sit down, sit down.  I don’t admire baked meat as a rule, but you know, as somebody says—­

    “When spits and jacks are gone and spent,
    Then ovens are most excellent,”
    And also most con-ven-i-ent.

The people at the Chequers managed it all.  Excellent people they are.  I owe them some money, which I shall have great pleasure in paying as soon as possible.  No man can pay it sooner.’