And Mrs Clere turned over the piece of florence as roughly as if it had been Tomkins instead of itself.
“It was right good frieze,” said the customer doubtfully.
“Then you’d better go and buy it,” snapped Mrs Clere, whom something seemed to have put out that morning, for she was generally better-tempered than that.
“Well, but I’m not so sure,” repeated the customer. “It’s a good step to Wye Street, and I’ve lost a bit o’ time already. If you’ll take tenpence the ell, you may cut me off twelve.”
“Tenpence the fiddlesticks!” said Mrs Clere, pushing the piece of worsted to one side. “I’ll not take a farthing under the shilling, if you ask me while next week. You can just go to Tomkins, and if you don’t find you’ve got to darn his worthless frieze afore you’ve done making it up, why, my name isn’t Bridget Clere, that’s all. Now, Rose Allen, what’s wanting?”
“An’t please you, Mistress Clere, black serge for a girdle.”
“Suit yourself,” answered Mistress Clere, giving three pieces of serge, which were lying on the counter, a push towards Rose. “Well, Audrey Wastborowe, what are you standing there for? Ben’t you a-going to that Tomkins?”
“Well, nay, I don’t think I be, if you’ll let me have that stuff at elevenpence the ell. Come now, do ’ee, Mistress Clere!”
“I’m not to be coaxed, I tell you. Shilling an ell, and not a bit under.”
“Well! then I guess I shall be forced to pay it. But you’ll give me good measure?”