This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room-door, brought into the apartment a short, thin, weasen, blear-eyed old woman, palsy-stricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping her shrivelled face upon her dirty apron, inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people commonly speak:
‘Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets so bad, I never know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it must be one of you, because nothing else never stirs in the house.’
‘Me, Peg, me,’ said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to render the reply more intelligible.
‘You, eh?’ returned Peg. ‘And what do you want?’
‘I’ll be married in the bottle-green,’ cried Arthur Gride.
‘It’s a deal too good to be married in, master,’ rejoined Peg, after a short inspection of the suit. ‘Haven’t you got anything worse than this?’
‘Nothing that’ll do,’ replied old Arthur.
‘Why not do?’ retorted Peg. ‘Why don’t you wear your every-day clothes, like a man—eh?’
‘They an’t becoming enough, Peg,’ returned her master.
‘Not what enough?’ said Peg.