“No more ’an others, but, Lord, Eliza, you wouldn’t have me trapesing about i’ the dusk hunting rum kegs?”
Francis took the pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife, a quizzical expression in his little gray eyes.
“’Tis what you’re paid for,” said Mistress Myddleton, lifting her eyes to the low-raftered ceiling.
Master Myddleton coughed explosively, and his face grew red with anger.
“God’s body! Isn’t that just like a woman,” he shouted, dashing his hand so violently on the arm of his chair that his pipe flew into shivers, whereupon he swore an oath which made his wife shudder. “Just like a woman sweet as honey till aught goes wrong,” he continued, getting more and more angry at every word. “Did you ever talk of hunting smugglers before the Mayor of Colchester must needs appoint an assistant to me? Lord! woman, you drink smuggled tea every day of your life so as to be i’ the fashion—don’t talk to me!”
“It’s very well for you to call this Thomas Playle an assistant, Master Myddleton,” observed his wife with asperity. “’Tis you are to be his assistant, I’m thinking. That will be a nice thing for the neighbours to hear—now if only our Matilda and he could——”
Francis Myddleton fairly roared with fury.
“Peace with ye, designing woman,” he shouted. “Will I have my only daughter disposed of before my eyes? Unfeeling mother! Elizabeth, I am amazed at ye.”
Mistress Myddleton gulped with indignation.
“Francis, I am surprised at you. I disposing of your daughter! Oh, you scandalous man! Why ever was I married to such a lump of lying perfidy?”