“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Petch, but I have—that is to say—your husband’s services will not be required.”
He mopped his brow, forgetful of all clerical dignity, while Mr. and Mrs. Petch looked at him and said nothing, and he felt as if red-hot worms were crawling about his unprotected person. Still they said nothing; and that was what made it so awful. At last a parrot screeched in the stillness.
“You—you have a relative to—er—fall back upon,” said poor Andy.
Mrs. Petch took a drink of water and passed a handkerchief across her eyes, then she asked faintly—
“What relative?”
“One named—er—William,” said Andy. “I understand——”
“T-that’s William!” interrupted Mrs. Petch, pointing to the parrot; then she laughed hysterically and burst into tears. “We get five shillings a week from an old mistress of mine as long as the parrot lives. And for that my poor husband is to lose his place. Oh, it’s hard—it’s cruel hard.”
Andy stood up, rather upset, but determined now to go through with it.
“Look here,” he said. “That’s not the only reason. I gather that your husband is addicted to drink.” Andy paused and elevated his chin. “A clergyman’s household must be above reproach.”
“It’s not true,” said Mrs. Petch eagerly. “He’s always so much livelier than the other men at Gaythorpe that when he gets a glass and is a bit livelier still, they think he’s drunk.”