"Yes, sir. I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir."

"What else?"

"Nothing as I can think of just now, sir."

Warburton knew from the woman's way of speaking that she had
something still in her mind; but his pipe being well lit, and a
pleasant lassitude creeping over him, he merely nodded. Mrs. Hopper
cleared the table, and withdrew.

The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-time
Ranelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which lay
Battersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July
sunset struck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it
with half-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth,
but languor held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his
thoughts among the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not
a sudden noise from within aroused him--the unmistakable crash of
falling crockery. It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous
expostulation. A minute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his
door, and Mrs. Hopper showed her face.

"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.

"Extensive?"

"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."