"Is it possible?" Mr. Mortimer was plainly surprised, not to say hurt.
He knit his brows, and for a moment seemed to be pondering darkly.
"You hear it, Arabella? But no matter. As I was saying, sir, I desire
the pleasure of introducing you to my wife, Mrs. Mortimer, better known
to fame, perhaps, as Miss Arabella St. Maur. You see her, Mr. Bossom,
as my helpmeet under circumstances which (though temporarily
unfavourable) call forth the true woman--naked, in a figurative sense,
and unadorned. But her Ophelia, sir, has been favourably, nay
enthusiastically, approved by some of the best critics of our day."

This again left Sam gravelled. He had a vague notion that the lady's
Ophelia must be some admired part of her anatomy, but contented himself
with touching his brow politely and muttering that he was Mrs.
Mortimer's to command. The lady, who appeared to be what Sam called to
himself a good sort, smiled down on him graciously, and hoped that she
and her husband might be favoured with his company at supper.

"It's very kind of _you_, ma'am," responded Sam; "but 'fact is I han't
knocked off work yet. 'Must go now and fetch out th' old hoss for a
trifle of haulage; an' when I get back I must clean meself an' shift for
night-school--me bein' due early there to fetch up leeway. You see," he
explained, "bein' on the move wi' the boats most o' my time, I don't get
the same chances as the other fellows. So when I hauls ashore, as we
call it, I 'ave to make up lost time."

"A student, I declare!" Mr. Mortimer saluted him. Rising from the steps
of the caravan, he rubbed a hand down his trouser-leg and extended it.
"Permit me to grasp, sir, the horny palm of self-improvement. A scholar
in humble life! and--as your delicacy in this small matter of the
saucepan sufficiently attests--one of Nature's gentlemen to boot!