"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said.

"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in
in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the
Atlantic. "Poor things!"

"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do
you think?"

"I suppose I was made so, sir."

"To be sure you were. God made you so."

"Surely, sir. Who else?"

"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like
to be comfortable."

"It du look likely enough, sir."

"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look
after the people you would make comfortable if you could."

"I must mind my work, you know, sir."

"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go
grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get
_your_ hand to it."