Whiffler’s thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him. ‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’ Mr. Saunders feels this to be a reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks it in some confusion. ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children, Saunders, make one quite an old man.’ Mr.
Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’ ‘What should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler.
Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’ ‘Not a ninth!’ cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr. Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health? Let us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’ Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which was a wrong one.