“My dear Miss Tippet, I shall never, no never, get over it.”

 

So said, and so undoubtedly¹ thought, a thin little old lady with remarkably² bright eyes, and a sweet old face, as she sat sipping³ tea at Miss Tippet’s elbow.

 

It was in the drawing-room of Miss Deemas that she sat, and the Eagle sat opposite to her.

 

“It was very dreadful,” responded Miss Tippet with a sigh—“very.”

 

“It was awful. I know I shall never get over it,—never,” repeated the little old lady, finishing her tea, and asking for another cup in the calmest possible voice, with the sweetest possible smile.

 

“Oh yes, you will, Mrs Denman,” said Miss Deemas snappishly.

 

“No, indeed, I won’t,” repeated Mrs Denman; “how can I? Just think of the situation. Sitting in my chair in dishabille, when a man—a Man, Miss Dee—”

 

“Well, I know what a man is,” said the Eagle bitterly; “why don’t you go on?”

 

“Burst himself through my bedroom-door,” continued Mrs Denman, “with lime and charcoal⁴ and brick-dust and water streaming down his face—f–fo-olded me in his arms, bore me out into the street—the street! Oh! I shall never, never get over it; and so little, so very little clothing on me—”

 

“How much had you on?” asked Miss Deemas in a deep voice, the calmness of which contrasted forcibly with Mrs Denman’s excited tones.

 

“Really, Miss Deemas, I see no necessity for going into particulars. It is sufficient to know that I was carried by a man into the street in the face of some thousands of people, for I heard them cheering though I saw them not. I know I shall never get over it—another cup, my love; not quite so much sugar—no, not if I were to live to the age of Methusaleh.”

 

“I don’t wonder, indeed I don’t,” murmured the sympathetic Miss Tippet. “I think, Julia dear, you are a little too hard on Mrs Denman. How would you like to have been carried out of a burning house in such a way by a big rough man?”

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