But Mr. Jeminy could see that
she had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I was on
my way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have to buy
your own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble.' I just stood and looked at
her."
Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And,
indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the
neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables,
fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while
she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of
her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good
man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were
wasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal,
the dress-maker, "because he talks so much."
It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his
conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or
Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about
nothing but the dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen.
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