‘Did you like the wailing sounds of the fatherless and motherless baby? You were nearer to it than I was. If you heard it last night, and felt all the pity you now express, you had a good opportunity of putting it to the test by going up-stairs and lulling the unfortunate babe to rest. A woman’s mission, too, I have always understood.’
Mrs Potts turned scarlet.
‘I! I do what you describe!’ she
said. ‘You forget yourself, Mr Martin.’
‘I fail to see that I do, Mrs Potts. It strikes me that it is rather the other way. Perhaps you will do me the kindness to let me have my room in peace.’
Mrs Potts made a sweeping curtsey and vanished, and Mr Martin stood for some time in his deserted parlour feeling far more uncomfortable than he liked to confess. He was methodical and fussy, but he was by no means an ill-natured man. He thought Mrs Potts most impertinent, but her news distressed him. After reflecting for a few moments, he went across to the fireplace, and pulled his bell sharply. After a short pause the kitchen slavey answered his summons: her eyes were red with weeping, and her nose very smutty. Mr Martin hated dirty servants. He turned his back to her as he spoke.
‘Yes, sir. Please sir, we’re all distraught with grief. You have heard of the—the—’
‘I have heard of the calamity, through Mrs Potts. Can I speak to your mistress?’
‘I’ll inquire, please sir. Missus is having her fourth hysteric fit just now.’