"I can see Mrs. Mallet is a horrible old croaker," said Lady Atherley.
"Let her croak," said Atherley, "so long as she cooks as she did last night. That curry would have got her absolution for anything if your uncle had been here."
"That reminds me, George, the ceiling of the spare room is not mended yet."
"Why, I thought you sent to Whitford for a plasterer yesterday?"
"Yes, and he came; but Mrs. Mallet has some extraordinary story about his falling into his bucket and spoiling his Sunday coat, and going home at once to change it. I can't make it out, but nothing is done to the ceiling."
"I make it out," said Atherley; "I make out that he was a little the worse for drink. Have we not a plasterer in the village?"
"I think there is one. I fancy the Jacksons did not wish us to employ him, because he is a dissenter; but after all, giving him work is not the same as giving him presents."
"No, indeed; nor do I see why, because he is a dissenter, I, who am only an infidel, am to put up with a hole in my ceiling."
"Only, I don't know what his name is."
"His name is Smart. Everybody in our village is called Smart—most inappropriately too."