“I don’t like finding fault with the servants, Mr Bayle. Did you hear me?”
“I could not help hearing,” he said smiling.
“She does provoke me so,” continued Mrs Luttrell in a soft clucking way, that quite accorded with her brooding. “I know I shall have to discharge her.”
“She does not like a little extra trouble, perhaps. Company.”
“Oh, no; it’s not that,” said Mrs Luttrell. “She’ll work night and day for one if she’s in a good temper; but, the fact is, Mr Bayle, she does not like this engagement, and quite hates Mr Hallam.”
Bayle drew his breath hard, but he turned a grave, smiling face to his hostess.
“That’s the reason, I’m sure, why she is so awkward to-night, my dear—I beg pardon, I mean Mr Bayle,” said the old lady colouring as ingenuously as a girl, “but she pretends it is about the potatoes.”
“Potatoes?” said Bayle, who was eager to divert her thoughts.
“Yes. You see the doctor is so proud of his potatoes, and I was going to please him by having some roasted for supper and brought up in a napkin, but Thisbe took offence directly, and said that cold chicken and hot potatoes would be ridiculous, and she has been in a huff ever since.”
Just then the door opened and the person in question entered, to come straight to Mrs Luttrell, who began to tremble and look at the curate for help.