“It’s all Frisby’s fault, in fact,” said Mrs Spencer, pursing up her lips. “I suppose,” she added, looking round the room, “he ought to dust, and clean the grate, and scrub the floors too.”
The old lady spoke so seriously that Mrs Frisby stared hard without replying.
“I must say,” continued the former, after a pause, “your husband has worked on my estate for nearly ten years—since he was quite a little boy, in fact—and I have always found him extremely industrious, good-tempered, and obliging. I can’t understand how it is that you seem to give him such a different character.”
“Well ’m,” said Mrs Frisby, shifting the child from her right arm to her left, “I don’t altogether complain, but I do think Frisby might be a bit more good-natured, knowin’ how poorly I feel, and so many childern to see to.”
“Somebody told me,” said Mrs Spencer, “that Frisby very often helps to dress the children.”
“Well ’m, and if he do they’re his childern so well as mine. I get faint now and then.”
“I don’t wonder,” said the other. “Do you by any chance ever open a window here?”
Mrs Frisby burst into tears. “I think ’tis very hard o’ Frisby to go complainin’ of me,” she sobbed. “A body can but do their best. With four childern and such poor health as I have, I think it’s wonderful I can get along at all. And as to cleanin’ up after Frisby (casting a sour look at the boots), I’m sure I can’t be expected to do that.”
“Good morning,” said Mrs Spencer, turning sharply round and walking out of the house.
As she drew near her own home she came upon Frisby himself, looking hot and tired, and walking with a lagging step. There had been no preparations of any kind for dinner at his cottage, and she wondered if the poor man would be obliged to get it himself, while his wife read her trashy paper, and dandled the big child, which could perfectly well have been taught to amuse itself happily while its mother was busy.