Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion.
“My dear,” said the petrified Pott,—“I didn’t say I believed it;—I—” but the unfortunate man’s voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner.
“Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma’am, to compose yourself,” said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder and more frequent than ever.
“My dear,” said Mr. Pott, “I’m very sorry. If you won’t consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.” But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth.
Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott’s person was a body-guard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams reached this young lady’s ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.
“Oh, my dear, dear mistress!” exclaimed the body-guard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. “Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter?”
“Your master—your brutal master,” murmured the patient.
Pott was evidently giving way.
“It’s a shame,” said the body-guard, reproachfully. “I know he’ll be the death of you, ma’am. Poor dear thing!”