'It's a pity they didn't, then,' retorted the undaunted Miss Whichello; 'it would have been the better for you, and for Beorminster also.'
'Would it indeed, ma'am?' gasped her adversary, beginning to feel nervous; 'oh, really!' with a hysterical titter, 'you and your certificate—I don't believe you have it.'
'Ask the bishop if I have not. He is satisfied, and that is all that is necessary, you wicked old woman.'
'You—you leave my house.'
'I shall do no such thing. Here I am, and here I'll stay until I speak my mind,' and Miss Whichello thumped the floor with her umbrella, while she gathered breath to continue. 'I haven't the certificate of my sister's marriage—haven't I? I'll show it to you in a court of law, Mrs Pansey, when you are in the dock—the dock, ma'am!'
'Me in the dock?' screeched Mrs Pansey, shaking all over, but more from fear than wrath. 'How—how—dare you?'
'I dare anything to stop your wicked tongue. Everybody hates you; some people are fools enough to fear you, but I don't,' cried Miss Whichello, erecting her crest; 'no, not a bit. One word against me, or against Mab, and I'll have you up for defamation of character, as sure as my name's Selina Whichello.'
'I—I—I don't want to say a word,' mumbled Mrs Pansey, beginning to give way, after the manner of bullies when bravely faced.
'You had better not. I have the bishop and all Beorminster on my side, and you'll be turned out of the town if you don't mind your own business. Oh, I know what I'm talking about,' and Miss Whichello gave a crow of triumph, like a victorious bantam.
'I am not accustomed to this—this violence,' sniffed Mrs Pansey, producing her handkerchief; 'if you—if you don't go, I'll call my servants.'