Phœbe was sweeping the flagged yard next morning when a trap driven by one of Mr. Jerrold's men turned up the drive and stopped with a flourish. But it was with no flourish that Mr. Jerrold himself descended, rather with the wincing and suppressed groans of one stiff with lumbago. Leaning on a stick, he came towards her, his dark brow puckered.
"Is Mr. Vale in?" he asked.
"He is indeed, sir," answered Phœbe, leaning on her broom and speaking breathlessly, "and I suppose you've heard of the goings on here. Pie's never stirred out of the parlour since yesterday morning, and he must be drunk as a lord now with all the whiskey he's carried in there. And as for that Fawnie—and it goes against the grain for me to 'Mrs. Vale' her—she's getting so arrogant there's no knowing what she'll do. This morning she carries down a bundle of soiled clothes and tells me to wash 'em. 'Here, Phœbe, you wash these clothes and see you wash 'em clean,' says she. Oh, I like her cheek, I do. 'Me wash for a Nindian!' says I. 'Am I Mrs. Vale or ain't I?' says she. 'You do what I say or you can get out.' That's the way she talked to me, sir, and if you was to have got out of that trap and hit me over the head with a bludgeon, I shouldn't have been knocked more of a heap. A gentleman must have a margin, as I say to Hughie, but when it comes to a Nindian wife . . . ."
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