Indeed, both the Norths saw at once that Mr. Fothersley was not quite himself, that he had been upset.
It was impossible to tell the chief causes of his annoyance before the servants, though, in an interval, he commented on the familiar behaviour of the sweep, and his views as to the results of “the new independence” on the working classes, and the danger of strikes.
“I have no patience with this pandering to the lower classes,” said Mrs. North. “They must be taught.”
North, who was genuinely fond of little Mr. Fothersley, did not ask “How?” as he had an irritating habit of doing when he heard his wife enunciate this formula.
Mr. Fothersley agreed. “Certainly, they must be taught.”
He was distinctly soothed. The Steinberg Cabinet had not altered, indeed it had gained in its power to minister. The objectionable feeling that the foundations on which his world was built were quivering and breaking up subsided into the background, and by the time the coffee came, and the servants departed, he was his usual genial kindly little self, and could even give a risible turn to his account of Mr. Pithey’s impertinence.
“I lost my temper and, I am afraid, practically gibbered at him with rage,” he owned. “I was hardly dignified. But that I should live to hear that Marion Condor is disapproved of by Mrs. Pithey!”
“Insolent brute!” said Mrs. North, all unconscious that her language was Pithian. “Can nobody put him in his place?”
“He must be taught,” suggested North wickedly. But, though his wife shot a doubtful glance at him, Mr. Fothersley took the suggestion in good faith.
“I quite agree with you, Roger. The question is, How? Unfortunately we have all called.”