“Poor dear!” said Mrs. Cluppins.
“Ah, poor thing!” replied Mrs. Sanders.
Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject.
“I raly cannot contain myself,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “when I think of such perjury. I don’t wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I had him here to tell him so.”
“I wish you had,” said Sam.
“To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no pleasure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit with her, and make her comfortable,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, glancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch oven, “its shocking!”
“Barbareous,” said Mrs. Sanders.
“And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel the expense of a wife, no more than nothing,” continued Mrs. Cluppins, with great volubility; “why there ain’t the faintest shade of an excuse for his behaviour! Why don’t he marry her?”
“Ah,” said Sam, “to be sure; that’s the question.”
“Question, indeed,” retorted Mrs. Cluppins; “she’d question him, if she’d my spirit. Hows’ever, there is law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d make us, if they could! and that your master will find out, young man, to his cost, afore he’s six months older.”