“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall never get another—like him.”
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr. Bumble?”
“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”
“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping her tea.