"Well, but where's the handle, then?"
"Why, here's the handle, to be sure," replied Jones, rather nettled, "don't you see?"
Mrs. Gray said she did; but we are inclined to believe she did not. However, Jones was satisfied; and, setting down the wooden Teapot—we forgot to say that it was flaming red—on the counter, he surveyed it complacently.
"I spent a week on that Teapot," he said "didn't I, Mary?"
"Ten days, father."
"Well, one must not grudge time or trouble, must one, Mrs. Gray? And now, ladies, we'll put away the Teapot, and step into the parlour, and have a cup of tea, eh?"
With the cup of tea, came a discussion of the morrow's prospects, and of the ultimate destinies of the Teapot—the upshot of which was, that Mr. Jones was an enterprising public man, and destined to effect a salutary revolution in the whole neighbourhood. Such, at least, was the opinion of Mrs. Gray, warmly supported by Mary. Mr. Jones was silent, through modesty; Rachel, because she was already thinking of other things. They parted late, though the Teapot was to open early.
There is a report that it opened with dawn, Mr. Jones not having been able to shut his eyes all night for excitement. But it is more important to record that, until its close, late on the following evening, the Teapot was not one moment empty. Mary had remained at home, to assist her father; and she went through the day with perfect composure; but Mr. Jones was fairly overpowered: the cup of his honours was too full; the sum of his joy was too great. He blundered, he stammered, he was excited, and looked foolish. Altogether, he did not feel happy, until the shop was shut, and all was fairly over. He then sat down, wiped his forehead, and declared, that since he was married to his dear little Mary's blessed mother, he had never gone through such a trying day—never.
"It's a fine thing Mr. Jones has undertaken," gravely observed Mrs. Gray to Mrs. Brown.
But Mrs. Brown was inclined to look at the shady side of the Tea-pot.