“Madam’ll excuse an old servant who’s outlived ’er time,” Steptoe intervened, “and not tyke no notice. They always abuses the kindness that’s been showed ’em, and tykes liberties which––”
But not for nothing had Mrs. Courage been born to the grand manner.
“When ’Enery Steptoe talks of old servants out-livin’ their time and tykin’ liberties ’e speaks of what ’e knows all about from personal experience. ’E was an old man when I was a little thing not so high.”
The appeal was to the curiosity of the girl behind the screen. To judge of how high Mrs. Courage had not been at a time when Steptoe was already an old man she might be enticed from her fortifications. But the pause only offered Steptoe a new opportunity.
“And so, if madam can dispense with ’er services, which I understand madam can, Mrs. Courage will be a-leavin’ of us this morning, with all our good wishes, I’m sure. Good-dye to you, Mary Ann, and God bless you after all the years you’ve been with us. Madam’s givin’ you your dismissal.”
Obedient to her cue Letty lowered her guard just enough to incline her head with the grace Steptoe had already pronounced “letter perfect.” The shock to Mrs. Courage can best be narrated in her own terms to Mrs. Walter Wildgoose later in the day.
“Airs! No one couldn’t imagine it, Bessie, what ’adn’t seen it for theirselves—what them baggages’ll do—smokin’—and wearin’ pearl necklaces—and ’avin’ their own limousines—all that I’ve seen and ’ad got used to—but not the President’s wife—not Mary Queen of England—could ’a myde you feel as if you was dirt hunder their feet like what this one—and ’er with one of them marked down sixty-nine cent blouses that ’adn’t seen the wash since—and as for 88 looks—why, she didn’t ’ave a look to bless ’erself—and a-’oldin’ of ’erself like what a empress might—and bowin’ ’er ’ead, and goin’ back to ’er pyper, as if I’d disturbed ’er at ’er readin’—and the dead and spitten image of ’Enery Steptoe ’imself she is—and you know ’ow many times we’ve all wondered as to why ’e didn’t marry—and ’im with syvings put by—Jynie thinks as ’e’s worth as much as—and you know what a ’and Jynie is for ferritin’ out what’s none of ’er business—why, if Jynie Cykebread could ’a myde ’erself Jynie Steptoe—but that’s somethink wild ’orses wouldn’t myke poor Jynie see—that no man wouldn’t look at ’er the second time if it wasn’t for to laugh—pitiful, I call it, at ’er aige—and me always givin’ the old rip to know as it was no use ’is ’angin’ round where I was—as if I’d marry agyne, and me a widda, as you might sye, from my crydle—and if I did, it wouldn’t ’a been a wicked old varlet what I always suspected ’e was leadin’ a double life—and now to see them two fyces together—why, I says, ’ere’s the explanytion as plyne as plyne can make it....”
All of which might have been true in rhetoric, but not in fact. For what had really given Mrs. Courage the coup de grace we must go back to the scene of the morning.
Ignoring both Letty’s inclination of the head and Steptoe’s benediction she had shown herself hurt where she was tenderest.