jist dishtracted wid the crool paice, that goes aff
philanderin wid the Shivel Sharvice shape av a Lamb. He didn't say it
moind in wurruds, but I see it was the killin' av 'em, an' he jist
coulden' shtand it no langer. Smaal blame to him say Oi!"

So grandfather got his supper, and went back to the office to finish his
pipe and his tumbler, while Timotheus was entertaining Tryphosa in the
kitchen. Mrs. Carruthers retired, but, first, she visited the young
ladies' apartment, and said, in a tone which she meant to be reproachful
as well as regretful: "Mr. Coristine has left us never to return." The
kindest-hearted woman in the world, having thrown this drop of
bitterness into her niece's cup, left her to drink it to the dregs.
Meanwhile Orther Lom was dreaming that he could not do better than marry
the Marjorie of his youth and begin housekeeping, in spite of tailors'
bills.

The sun rose bright on Friday morning, and, peeping in upon Mr.
Bigglethorpe in his room and upon Marjorie in the nursery bedroom, awoke
these two early birds. They met on the stairs and came down together.
The fisherman said he thought he would get his things bundled up,
meaning his gun and rods, and walk home to breakfast, but Marjorie said
he just wouldn't, for Eugene was gone, and, if he were to go, she would
have nobody. Well broken in to respect for feminine authority, save when
the fishing fit was on, Mr. Bigglethorpe had to succumb, and travel down
to the creek after crawfish, chub and dace. He told his youthful
companion fishing stories which amused her; and confided to her that he
was going to train up his little boy to be a great fisherman. "Have you
got a little boy, Mr. Biggles?" she asked, and then added: "How funny!"
as if her friend ought to have been content with other people's
children, and fish.

"What is his name, Mr. Biggles?" she enquired.

"He hasn't been christened yet, but I think I'll call him Isaac Walton,
or Charles Cotton, or Piscator. Don't you think these are nice nimes?"

"No, I don't. Woollen and Cotton and what Mr. Perrowne belongs to are
not pretty. Eugene is pretty."

Mr. Bigglethorpe laughed, and said: "I didn't say Woollen but Walton,
and I said Piscator, which is the Latin for fisher, not Episcopalian,
which Mr. Perrowne is."

"Why do you want to call him a fisher? It is like a Sunday School story
Marjorie read me, a Yankee book, about a little baby boy that was left
on a doorstep, and the doorstep man's