The bell had rung, and after Mrs Wilton had been up twice to her niece’s room, and reported the ill success of her visits to her lord, Wilton growled out:
“Well, I want my dinner. Let her stay and starve herself into her senses. But here,” he cried, with a fresh burst of temper, “why the devil isn’t that boy here? I’m not going to be kept waiting for him. Do you hear? Where is he?”
“He was so ill, dear, he said he was obliged to go upstairs and lie down.”
“Bah! Rubbish! He wasn’t hurt.”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t know,” sobbed Mrs Wilton.
“Yah! You cry if you dare. Wipe your eyes. Think I haven’t had worry enough to-day without you trying to lay the dust? Ring and tell Samuel to fetch him down.”
“Oh, pray don’t do that, dear; the servants will talk enough as it is.”
“They’d better. I’ll discharge the lot. I’ve been too easy with everybody up to now, and I’ll begin to turn over a new leaf. Stand aside, woman, and let me get to that bell.”
“No, no, don’t, pray don’t ring. Let me go up and beg of him to come down.”
“What! Beg? Go up and tell him that if he don’t come down to dinner in a brace of shakes I’ll come and fetch him with a horsewhip.”