“Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought-after to be content with the country, ma’am,” said little Mrs. Cluppins.
“Perhaps I am, ma’am. Perhaps I am,” sighed the first-floor lodger.
“For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,” observed Mr. Raddle, plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, “the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say.”
Now, of all the things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said, any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears, and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon which the affectionate child began to cry too, most dismally.
“Would anybody believe, ma’am,” exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely to the first-floor lodger, “that a woman could be married to such a unmanly creetur, which can tamper with a woman’s feelings as he does, every hour in the day, ma’am?”
“My dear,” remonstrated Mr. Raddle, “I didn’t mean anything, my dear.”
“You didn’t mean!” repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. “Go away. I can’t bear the sight on you, you brute.”
“You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,” interposed Mrs. Cluppins. “You really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away, Raddle, there’s a good soul, or you’ll only aggravate her.”
“You had better take your tea by yourself, sir, indeed,” said Mrs. Rogers, again applying the smelling-bottle.
Mrs. Sanders, who according to custom was very busy with the bread and butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired.