Mrs. Grobstock incredulously approached the window and stared through the panes. She saw Wilkinson in the gardens, but did not recognise him in his new attitude. She concluded that her husband's agitation must have some connection with a beautiful brunette who was tasting the cool of the evening in a sedan chair, and it was with a touch of asperity that she said: "Cook complains of being insulted by a saucy fellow who brought home your fish."
"Oh!" said poor Grobstock. Was he never to be done with the man?
"How came you to send him to her?"
His anger against Manasseh resurged under his wife's peevishness.
"My dear," he cried, "I did not send him anywhere—except to the devil."
"Joseph! You might keep such language for the ears of creatures in sedan chairs."
And Mrs. Grobstock flounced out of the room with a rustle of angry satin.
When Wilkinson reappeared, limp and tired, with his pompousness exuded in perspiration, he sought his master with a message, which he delivered ere the flood of interrogation could burst from Grobstock's lips.
"Mr. da Costa presents his compliments, and says that he has decided on reconsideration not to break his promise to be with you on Friday evening."
"Oh, indeed!" said Grobstock grimly. "And, pray, how came you to carry his box?"