"Well, that is severe," said Mrs. Cornbury, laughing.
"Oh, T.! you shouldn't have said that before Mrs. Cornbury!"
"I only meant my own wife, ma'am; I didn't indeed."
"I'll forgive your satire if you'll give me your vote," said Mrs. Cornbury, with her sweetest smile. "He owes it me now; doesn't he, Mrs. Tappitt?"
"Well,—I really think he do." Mrs. Tappitt, in her double trouble,—in her own defeat and her shame on behalf of her husband's rudeness,—was driven back, out of all her latter-day conventionalities, into the thoughts and even into the language of old days. She was becoming afraid of Mrs. Cornbury, and submissive, as of old, to the rank and station of Cornbury Grange. In her terror she was becoming a little forgetful of niceties learned somewhat late in life. "I really think he do," said Mrs. Tappitt.
Tappitt grunted again.
"It's a very serious thing," he said.
"So it is," said Mrs. Cornbury, interrupting him. She knew that her chance was gone if the man were allowed to get himself mentally upon his legs. "It is very serious; but the fact that you are still in doubt shows that you have been thinking of it. We all know how good a churchman you are, and that you would not willingly send a Jew to Parliament."
"I don't know," said Tappitt. "I'm not for persecuting even the Jews;—not when they pay their way and push themselves honourably in commerce."
"Oh, yes; commerce! There is nobody who has shown himself more devoted to the commercial interests than Mr. Cornbury. We buy everything in Baslehurst. Unfortunately our people won't drink beer because of the cider."