"Gels eat so much," said Mrs. Short pensively. "I've a good appetite, ma'am: I re'lly don't see how I could afford a gel. When I say a good appetite, I don't mean a appetite as can eat anything, but if I gets what I like I can pick a good little bit; but anything in the way, say of a sweetbread, now, or mutton kidneys, or a Yorkshire 'Am, or a veal pie or the like,—which I re'lly require such food, ma'am,—they cost a deal, and no common gel can be expected to cook 'em. I can't afford a gel, and that's the truth."
"Oh, Mrs. Short, you are no worse off than your neighbours, you know."
"Well, I don't know how they manage," said Mrs. Short thoughtfully.
"I think," said silent Mr. Cloudesley suddenly, "that by thinking a little of other people, and not spending every penny they have upon themselves alone, they seem to get more comfort out of this life even, to say nothing of a life beyond this. Come, May, it is getting late."
Mrs. Short was offended, and showed them to the door in silence. Her "Good-afternoon, ma'am," was the stiffest thing imaginable.
"That poor woman! She always depresses me, Gilbert. Why did you not say more to her? It is so very sad."
"There was no use in saying more, my dear. One can't say more than one sharp thing, and anything less sharp would not get through the poor thing's coating of fat. Now, perhaps that small harpoon may stick."
The door of Ralph's house was opened by Ollie whose cheeks were crimson with excitement.
"Please come into the parlour, ma'am, and I'll tell them. We're all in the kitchen mixing the pudding."
"Ah, Ollie! Let me go into the kitchen and see the fun," said May. "Ruth won't mind."