She closed her eyes. Mr. Dickens took a turn. The feelings of a man had
not altogether deserted him, though as you saw him coming towards you,
you noticed how one knobbed black boot swung tremulously in front of the
other; how there was a shadow between his waistcoat and his trousers;
how he leant forward unsteadily, like an old horse who finds himself
suddenly out of the shafts drawing no cart. But as Mr. Dickens sucked in
the smoke and puffed it out again, the feelings of a man were
perceptible in his eyes. He was thinking how Captain Barfoot was now on
his way to Mount Pleasant; Captain Barfoot, his master. For at home in
the little sitting-room above the mews, with the canary in the window,
and the girls at the sewing-machine, and Mrs. Dickens huddled up with
the rheumatics--at home where he was made little of, the thought of
being in the employ of Captain Barfoot supported him. He liked to think
that while he chatted with Mrs. Barfoot on the front, he helped the
Captain on his way to Mrs. Flanders. He, a man, was in charge of Mrs.
Barfoot, a woman.

Turning, he saw that she was chatting with Mrs. Rogers. Turning again,
he saw that Mrs. Rogers had moved on. So he came back to the bath-chair,
and Mrs. Barfoot asked him the time, and he took out his great silver
watch and told her the time very obligingly, as if he knew a great deal
more about the time and everything than she did. But Mrs. Barfoot knew
that Captain Barfoot was on his way to Mrs. Flanders.

Indeed he was well on his way there, having left the tram, and seeing
Dods Hill to the south-east, green against a blue sky that was suffused
with dust colour on the horizon. He was marching up the hill. In spite
of his lameness there was something military in his approach. Mrs.
Jarvis, as she came out of the Rectory gate, saw him coming, and her
Newfoundland dog, Nero, slowly swept his tail from side to side.