“Deborah Giles! the boatman’s daughter! I declare I never heard of such a place as this for gossip! Why, Deborah Giles can barely read and write; and she is beneath Mr Hope in every way. I do not believe he ever spoke to her in his life.”
“Oh, well; I do not pretend to know. I heard something about it. Eleven and threepence. Can you change a sovereign, Mr Jones? And, pray, send home the chops immediately.”
“It is my cousin, Miss Ibbotson, that Mr Hope is engaged to,” said Sophia, unable to refrain from disclosures which she yet saw were not cared for:— “the beautiful Miss Ibbotson, you know.”
“Indeed: I am sure somebody said it was Deborah Giles. Then you think, Mr Jones, we may depend upon you for game when the season begins?”
Mr Jones seemed more interested in the news than his customer; he wished Mr Hope all good luck with his pretty lady.
Sophia thought herself fortunate when she saw Mr Enderby turn out of the toy-shop with his youngest nephew, a round-faced boy, still in petticoats, perched upon his shoulder. Mr Enderby bowed, but did not seem to heed her call: he jumped through the turnstile, and proceeded to canter along the church lane amidst the glee of the child so rapidly, that Sophia was obliged to give up the hope of being the first to tell him the news. It was very provoking: she should have liked to see how he would look.
She was sure of a delighted listener in Mrs Howell, to whom no communication ever came amiss: but there was a condition to Mrs Howell’s listening—that she should be allowed to tell her own news first. When she found that Sophia wanted to match some worsteds, she and her shop-woman exchanged sympathetic glances—Mrs Howell sighing, with her head on the right side, and Miss Miskin groaning, with her head on the left side.
“Are you ill, Mrs Howell?” asked Sophia.
“It shook me a little, I confess, ma’am, hearing that you wanted worsteds. We have no relief, ma’am, from ladies wanting worsteds.”
“No relief, day or night,” added Miss Miskin.