Mr Rainscourt made a slight bow, and threw himself on the sofa, covering his face with his hand, as if the light was hideous.
Mrs Potts took the opportunity of escaping by the door, beckoning to her husband as soon as she was outside.
“And I will go and decant the wine.—Quite in the family way, Mr Rainscourt—no ceremony. You’ll excuse me,” continued the curate, as he obeyed the summons of his wife, like a school-boy ordered up to be birched.
“Well, my dear,” interrogated Mr Potts, humbly, as soon as the door was closed. But Mrs Potts made no reply, until she had led her husband to such a distance from the parlour as she imagined would prevent Mr Rainscourt from being roused by the high pitch to which she intended to raise her voice.
“I do declare, Mr Potts, you are a complete fool. Saturday—all the maids washing—and ask him to dinner! There’s positively nothing to eat. It really is too provoking.”
“Well, my dear, what does it matter? The poor, man will, in all probability, not eat a bit—he is so overcome.”
“So over-fiddlesticked!” replied the lady. “Grief never hurts the appetite, Mr Potts; on the contrary, people care more then about a good dinner than at other times. It’s the only enjoyment they can have without being accused by the world of want of feeling.”
“Well, you know better than I, my dear; but I really think that if you were to die I could not eat a bit.”
“And I tell you, Mr Potts, I could, if you were to die tomorrow.—So stupid of you!—Sally, run and take off the tablecloth,—it’s quite dirty; put on one of the fine damask.”
“They will be very large for the table, ma’am.”