“It’s all stuff, Master Antony, and I’m not,” cried Mary.
“Tantrums won’t save you from it now, my dear,” said Revitts, shaking his head and pointing to the wall. “I says to myself as soon as ever I began to be able to think again, and see that there shawl and bonnet a-hanging so comfortable-like up again my greatcoat and hat—I says to myself, I says, she’s hung up her bonnet now and give in, and it can be Mrs William Revitts as soon as ever I like.”
“It’s all stuff and nonsense, I tell you. Don’t listen to him, Master Antony.”
“That ain’t a real tantrum,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands; “she’s give in—she’s give in.”
“I declare I wouldn’t have come a-nigh you, Bill, if I’d knowed you’d go on like that before Master Antony,” cried Mary, who was perfectly scarlet.
“Master Antony’s a gentleman,” said Revitts, “and he bears witness that you’ve give in; and, tantrums or no tantrums,” he cried, bringing his hand down upon the table with a bang, “you don’t go away no more. Look at that!”
He took a blue official envelope from his pocket and opened it, took out a letter, and smoothed it upon his knee.
“That’s dictation, that is, Antony. That’s what that is,” he cried, holding up his chin, and giving his head an official roll, as if to settle it in a stock that he was not wearing.
“Why, where did you get that letter?” cried Mary.
“Brought me this afternoon while you was out shopping,” said Revitts triumphantly. “Look here, Antony, that ain’t directed to P.C. Revitts, that ain’t;” and he handed me the envelope, which I read aloud: