"Well, yes, yes!" she exclaimed, repentantly, "yes, I am in that state ... Forgive me, William—forgive a poor drunken woman!"
"I will forgive you, Anna," he replied, and he gave her a wash-hand basin, saying: "Cold water will do you good, and when your head is clear, remember the lesson which you must learn from this occurrence."
"What lesson?" she asked, humbly.
"That people ought never to depart from their usual habits."
"But why, then, William," she asked, timidly, "have you changed your habits?"
"Hold your tongue!" he cried—"hold your tongue, Jezabel! Have you not got over your intoxication yet? For twelve years I certainly followed the divine precept: increase and multiply, once a year. But since then, I have grown accustomed to something else, and I do not wish to alter my habits."
And the Reverend William Greenfield, Vicar of St. Sampson's, Tottenham, the saintly man whose blood was inflamed by heating food and liquor, whose ears were like full-blown poppies and who had a nose like a tomato, left his wife and, as had been his habit for four years, went to make love to Polly, the servant.
"Now, Polly," he said, "you are a clever girl, and I mean, through you, to teach Mrs. Greenfield a lesson she will never forget. I will try and see what I can do for you."
And in order to this, he called her his little Jezabel, and said to her, with an unctuous smile:
"Call me Jeroboam! You don't understand why? Neither do I, but that does not matter. Take off all your things, Polly, and show yourself to Mrs. Greenfield."