“Your servant, Madam,” returned Mrs Jane, who had divested herself of cloak and pattens in the hall.
“Pray be seated, Mrs Jane. And what brings you hither?—for methinks some matter of import will have called you out on so rainy a day as this.”
“Easy to guess,” answered Mrs Jane, taking a seat as requested, and delivering her communication in short, blunt sentences, like small shot. “A whim of Marcella’s. Got a fancy for Port O Port. Sent me to beg a sup of you, Madam. Fancies it will cure her. Fiftieth time she has thought so, of something. All nonsense. Can’t help it.”
“Indeed, my dear Mrs Jane, I am happy to be capable of helping Mrs Marcella to her fancy, and trust it may be of the advantage she thinks.—Phoebe! tell Betty to bid Baxter bring hither a bottle of the best Port O Port—that from the little ark in the further cellar.—And how does Mrs Marcella this afternoon?”
“As cross as two sticks,” said Mrs Jane.
“She is a great sufferer,” observed Madam, in her kindest manner.
Mrs Jane made no reply, unless her next remark could properly be called one.
“Mrs Darcy came last night.”
“Last night!” answered Madam, in accents of surprise. “Dear! I quite understood she was not to arrive before this evening. You have seen her, Mrs Jane?”
“Seen her! Oh dear, yes; I’ve seen her. We were schoolfellows.”