“Go it!” cried Peter, “it’s pride! I can see through it all. Why don’t you be open with me? But, mark my words, Keziah, there’s more sterling substance in a short six, or even a height, than in all your grand composites, as set themselves up for sparm or wax. I’m tallow, I am, and I respect tallow. I like people not to be ashamed of their position. We can’t all be wax, nor yet sparm, so why not be content as a good honest dip, or a mould! Why, even your twelve or fourteen has a honesty about it that your sham, make-believe imitation wax don’t possess—things as won’t stand so much as a draught of air without flaring, and guttering down, and spattering all over your carpets. It’s pride, Keziah, and that’s all about it.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Keziah quietly.
“To throw me over like this,” continued Mr Pash in injured tones, “and after all my attentions and presents.”
“Presents, indeed!” exclaimed the lady, “attentions!—very delicate attentions. Kidneys, that you got out of the nasty fat that you buy of the butchers.”
“But I never brought one as was the least tainted,” said Peter, “and you always said there was nothing nicer for supper.”
“And, pray, who always ate a good half?” retorted Keziah angrily.
“But I never should have touched ’em if they hadn’t been so gloriously cooked—such brown—such gravy! O, Keziah, don’t be hard on me,” sighed Peter.
“Peter Pash!” exclaimed the lady indignantly, “you’re a great goose; and if I didn’t know that you’d been sitting here three hours without nothing stronger than small beer before you, I should say you’d been drinking. Now, once for all, you can come if you like, or you can stay away if you like. I’m not going even to think about getting married till Miss May’s settled, and that won’t be well, never mind that. Now go home.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Peter in a resigned way, and taking his hat off the sideboard he began to brush the nap round and round very carefully. “But you’re very hard on me, Keziah.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go?” said the lady.