“Miss Pryinall be ——!” Mr. Morton checked himself, took a large draught of the brandy and water, and added, “Miss Pryinall wants to have a finger in everybody’s pie.”
“But she buys a deal of flannel, and does great good to the town; it was she who found out that Mrs. Giles was no better than she should be.”
“Poor Mrs. Giles!—she came to the workhouse.”
“Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed! I wonder, Mr. Morton, that you, a married man with a family, should say, poor Mrs. Giles!”
“My dear, when people who have been well off come to the workhouse, they may be called poor:—but that’s neither here nor there; only, if the boy does come to us, we must look sharp upon Miss Pryinall.”
“I hope he won’t come,—it will be very unpleasant. And when a man has a wife and family, the less he meddles with other folks and their little ones, the better. For as the Scripture says, ‘A man shall cleave to his wife and—‘”
Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and Mrs. Morton broke off into:
“Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? And all gone to bed! Do go and see, Mr. Morton.”
Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton rose; and, proceeding to the passage, unbarred the door. A brief and muttered conversation followed, to the great irritability of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage—the candle in her hand.
“What is the matter, Mr. M.?”