Mr. Marchbanks’ solemn, deep-toned note of pathos impinged upon the domain of poetry.
Mrs. Plunket shuddered.
“Mr. Marchbanks,” said she, “if you desire it she shall be dismissed.”
At heart, however, Mr. Marchbanks was a man of liberal views, as became one who had been nurtured in Whig traditions.
“She is young, ma’am,” said he, with a dignified mildness which in the circumstances Mrs. Plunket admired extremely. “A word in season from the right quarter might bear fruit.”
“She shall have it,” said Mrs. Plunket, with a truculent shake of the teapot.
“Her style of dress also leaves much to be desired,” said Mr. Marchbanks. “It is distinctly suburban to my mind. But no doubt, ma’am, you will prefer to judge for yourself.”
“I will see her,” said Mrs. Plunket. “But I feel sure I shall have to dismiss her at once. Yet to be an under-housemaid short does make life so difficult.”
“Perhaps, ma’am, she may be molded,” said Mr. Marchbanks with the optimism of the true Whig.
Mr. Marchbanks withdrew, climbed the stairs at a dignified leisure, and reached the marble floor of the spacious entrance-hall. He was greeted immediately by a gesture of distress from John. It seemed that the chaste air of Hill Street was being defiled by an altercation between a person in a battered straw hat and a rustical frock and an elderly cabman who smelt strongly of gin.