“Thank you,” was the haughty response of the angered dame; “we have already remained too long. Be good enough, sir, to have us shown out.”
“Cobbler” Horn rang the bell; and, as the lady, followed by her sons, swept past him with a stately and disdainful bow, he felt that, in some way, he had grievously transgressed.
Miss Jemima, on her return, a few moments later, heard, with great consternation, what had taken place.
“I asked the good lady to wait till you came, Jemima; but she insisted on going away at once.”
“Oh, Thomas, what have you done!” cried Miss Jemima, in piteous tones.
“What could I do?” was the reply. “You see, I could not think of wasting my time; and I thought they would not mind staying by themselves, for a few minutes, till you came in.”
“Oh, dear,” cried Miss Jemima, “I’m afraid she’ll never come again!”
“Well, never mind, Jemima,” said her brother; “I don’t suppose it will matter very much.”
The foreboding of Miss Jemima was fulfilled; the outraged lady returned no more. And there were many others, who, when they found that the master of the house had little taste for fashionable company, discontinued their calls. Some few of her new-made acquaintances only Miss Jemima was able, by dint of her own careful and eager politeness, to retain.
There were also other points at which “Cobbler” Horn came into collision with the customs of society. He persisted in habitually going out with his hands ungloved. He possessed a hardy frame, and, even in winter, he had rarely worn either gloves or overcoat; and now, as ever, almost his only preparation for going out was to take his hat down from its peg, and put it on his head. Miss Jemima pathetically entreated that he would at least wear gloves. But he was obdurate. His hands, he said, were always warm enough when he was out of doors; and he would try to keep them clean.