The Admiral had made up his mind.  He was going to interview Mrs. Snell, the charwoman.

It was a pretty fancy, and one not without parallel in the history of famous men, that inspired him at his crisis to assume his bravest attire.  There is to my mind a flavour in the conceit—­a bravado lifting the action above mere intrepidity into actual greatness.  Nor in this little Iliad are there many figures that I regard with more affection than that of Admiral Buzza at his garden gate waiting for Mrs. Snell.

When at length she issued from “The Bower” and came down the road, the effect of the gold lace was rather striking.  She dropped her bundle and her lower jaw together.

“Lawks, sir! how you did frighten me, to be sure!  I thought it was the devil!”

This was hardly what the Admiral had expected.  He beckoned with his forefinger mysteriously.  Mrs. Snell advanced as though not quite sure that her first fright was unfounded.

“Mrs. Snell,” inquired the Admiral, in a whisper, “what are they like?” He pointed melodramatically towards “The Bower” as he asked the question.

Again the unexpected happened.  Mrs. Snell burst into loud and hysterical sobbing.

“Don’t ’ee, sir! don’t ’ee!  I can’t abear it.  Not a thing can you do to please ’em, an’ the Honorubble Frederic a-dammin’ about the ’ouse fit to make your flesh creep.  An’ that though he might ’ave ate his dinner off the floor, gold studs an’ all, as I told ’un at last.  For ‘twasn’t in flesh and blood, sir—­not to be ordered this way an’ that by a whipper-snapper whose gran’mother I might ’a been, though he ’as got three rows o’ shiny buttons on ’is stummick, which is no cause for a proud carriage toward them as ‘asn’t, nor callin’ ’em slow-coaches and names which I won’t soil my tongue wi’—­an’ so I said.  Aw dear! aw dear!” And here Mrs. Snell’s passion again found vent in violent sobs and cries.

“Hush!  Confound it!  Hush!  I tell you.  You’ll have the whole town out.”

“I beg your pardon, sir—­boo-hoo!—­but it isn’t in natur’, sich wickedness in ‘igh places, an’ pore Maria sick at ‘ome wi’ the colic an’ a leak in the roof you might put your cocked ‘at through, an’ very fine it looks, sir, beggin’ your parding agen, which is all vexashun o’ sperrit on a shillin’ a day an’ your vittles, let alone bein’ swore at ’till you dunno whether you be ’pon your ’ed or your ’eels.”

With this Mrs. Snell picked up her bundle and marched off down the road.  She was quite hopeless, the Admiral determined, as he watched her retreating figure and heard her sobs borne back to him on the evening air.  Well, well! it had been another reverse—­but not a defeat.  His face cleared again as he turned to re-enter the house.

“Let me see:  to-morrow is Sunday.  They will probably be at church.  In the afternoon, though it involve the loss of my usual nap, I will consider.  On Monday I will act.”