I'm like Jakes and the flowers: he says the
smaller and 'footier' they are, the longer the name they sticks on to
them, just to puzzle a body who----"
"Madeira," suggested Angela, with the calmness of despair.
"Yes, that's it--Madeiry. Well, why don't you go to Madeiry along with
your letter to look after Mr. Arthur? Like enough he is in a bit of a
mess there. So far as I know anything about their ways, young men
always are, in a general sort of way, for everlasting a-caterwauling
after some one or other, for all the world like a tom on the tiles,
more especial if they are in love with somebody else. But, dear me, a
sensible woman don't bother her head about that. She just goes and
hooks them out of it, and then she knows where they are, and keeps
them there."
"Oh, Pigott, never mind all these reflections, though I'm sure I don't
know how you can think of such things. The idea of comparing poor dear
Arthur with a tom-cat! But tell me, how can I go to Madeira? Supposing
that he is married?"
"Well, then you would learn all about it for yourself, and no
gammoning; and there'd be an end to it, one way or the other.
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