"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous trappings of her own private drawing-room.
"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.
"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."
"Yes'm."
"Now Mrs. a—what is your name?"
"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I—"
"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a—Brown," said the reclining Mrs. Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc., in your house?"
"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"
"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a—Brown—O dear! dear! I am afraid you have ruined all my clothes!"
"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.