"But perhaps he will be angry if we move his papers," said she.
"Not he," said Betty. "He has no secrets from God or man."
"Well, I won't take it on me," said Mrs. Gaunt, merrily. "I leave that to you." And she turned her back and settled the mirror, officiously, leaving all the other responsibilities to Betty.
The sturdy widow laughed at her scruples, and whipped off the clot without ceremony. But soon her laugh stopped mighty short, and she uttered an exclamation.
"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Gaunt, turning her head sharply round.
"A wench's glove, as I'm a living sinner," groaned Betty.
A poor little glove lay on the table; and both women eyed it like basilisks a moment. Then Betty pounced on it and examined it with the fierce keenness of her sex in such conjunctures, searching for a name or a clue.
Owing to this rapidity, Mrs. Gaunt, who stood at some distance, had not time to observe the button on the glove, or she would have recognized her own property.
"He have had a hussy with him unbeknown," said Betty, "and she have left her glove. 'Tis easy to get in by the window and out again. Only let me catch her. I'll tear her eyes out, and give him my mind. I'll have no young hussies creeping in an' out where I be."
Thus spoke the simple woman, venting her coarse domestic jealousy.