“No, my lady,—I beg your ladyship's pardon for forgetting; but as I have always lived in high families, I 've got the habit, my lady, of saying, 'my lady.'”
“I am Madam, plain Madam Davis. There, I knew you 'd do it, you nasty little beast, you odious black creature!” This sudden apostrophe was evoked by the nigger endeavoring to balance a jam-pot on his thumb, while he spun it round with the other hand,—an exploit that ended in a smash of the jar, and a squash of the jam all over my silk stockings.
“It's of no consequence, my lady; I shall change them when I dress for dinner,” said I, with consummate ease.
“The jam is lost, however. Will you kindly beat him about the head with that candlestick beside you?”
I seized the implement, as if in most choleric mood. But my black was not to be caught so easily; and with a dive between my legs he bolted for the door, whilst I was pitched forward against the step-ladder, head foremost. In my terror, I threw out my hands to save myself, and caught—not the ladder, but Madam Davis's legs; and down we went together, with a small avalanche of brown jars and preserve-pots clattering over us.
As I had gone headforemost, my head through the ladder, and as Mrs. Davis had fallen on the top of me,—her head being reversed,—there we lay, like herrings in a barrel, till her swoon had passed away. At last she did rally; and, gathering herself up, sat against the wall, a most rueful picture of bruises and disorder, while I, emerging from between the steps of the ladder, began to examine whether it were marmalade or my brains that I felt coming down my cheek.
“You'll never mention this shocking event, Cornelius,” said she, trying to adjust her wig, which now faced over the left shoulder.
“Never, my lady. Am I to consider myself engaged?”