Here, take my coats, will you? and let me have a pair of slippers. If Mrs. Smiley thinks that I'm going to change my pants, or put myself about for her———'
'Laws, Moulder, she don't expect that.'
'She won't get it any way. Here's John dressed up as if he was going to a box in the the-atre. And you—why should you be going to expense, and knocking out things that costs money, because Mother Smiley's coming? I'll Smiley her.'
'Now, Moulder—' But Mrs. Moulder knew that it was of no use speaking to him at the present moment. Her task should be this,—to feed and cosset him if possible into good humour before her guest should arrive. Her praises of Mrs. Smiley had been very fairly true. But nevertheless she was a lady who had a mind and voice of her own, as any lady has a right to possess who draws in her own right two hundred a year out of a brick-field in the Kingsland Road. Such a one knows that she is above being snubbed, and Mrs. Smiley knew this of herself as well as any lady; and if Moulder, in his wrath, should call her Mother Smiley, or give her to understand that he regarded her as an old woman, that lady would probably walk herself off in great dudgeon,—herself and her share in the brick-field. To tell the truth, Mrs. Smiley required that considerable deference should be paid to her.
Mrs. Moulder knew well what was her husband's present ailment. He had dined as early as one, and on his journey up from Leeds to London had refreshed himself with drink only. That last glass of brandy which he had taken at the Peterborough station had made him cross. If she could get him to swallow some hot food before Mrs. Smiley came, all might yet be well.
'And what's it to be, M.?' she said in her most insinuating voice—'there's a lovely chop down stairs, and there's nothing so quick as that.'
'Chop!' he said, and it was all he did say at the moment.
'There's a 'am in beautiful cut,' she went on, showing by the urgency of her voice how anxious she was on the subject.
For the moment he did not answer her at all, but sat facing the fire, and running his fat fingers through his uncombed hair. 'Mrs. Smiley!' he said; 'I remember when she was kitchen-maid at old Pott's.'
'She aint nobody's kitchen-maid now,' said Mrs. Moulder, almost prepared to be angry in the defence of her friend.
'And I never could make out when it was that Smiley married her,—that is, if he ever did.'
'Now, Moulder, that's shocking of you. Of course he married her. She and I is nearly an age as possible, though I think she is a year over me. She says not, and it aint nothing to me. But I remember the wedding as if it was yesterday. You and I had never
