The women listened and flung in “Well, I never’s,” and “Who’d ’ave thought it’s” from time to time and thawed into ordinary human beings under Sam’s convivial 111 example. In the end Sam offered sincere if oddly-expressed congratulations, and disappeared into the back kitchen to wash his hands. Jessie, too, vanished mysteriously, eventually returning minus the curling pins and plus a row of impossible curls and a bright blue blouse bedecked with cheap lace. Mrs. Sartin meanwhile tidied up by kicking the scattered toys under the sofa.
“Them sisters what looks arter the poor is always givin’ broken rubbish to the children,” she exclaimed. “Not but what they mean it kindly, but it makes a heap of muck to clear up.”
Christopher nodded his head comprehendingly, by no means so hurt at her ingratitude as a real Christopher Aston might have been.
The good woman bustled about, and eventually the family drew up round the tea table. The cloth might have been cleaner, the cups and saucers have borne a longer acquaintance with water, and there was a spoon short, though no one was so ill-mannered as to allude to it. Jessie unobtrusively shared hers with her mother under cover of the big tea-pot. There was bread and a yellow compound politely alluded to as butter, and a big pot of jam. The younger Sartins gorged silently on this, all unreproved by a preoccupied mother. Mrs. Sartin, indeed, became quite voluble and told Christopher how she was now first dresser at the Kings Theatre and how Jessie was just taken on in the wardrobe room.
“Which is uncertain hours,” Mrs. Sartin explained, “but it’s nice to be together in the same ’ouse, and one couldn’t want a kinder gentleman than Mr. X. to do with. I’ve been there ten years and never ’ad a cross word with ’im. And ’e was that good when Marley was took, and never turned me off as some of ’em do.” She stopped suddenly under the stress of Sam’s lowering countenance. Jessie hastily passed her 112 bread, “which I thanks you for, but will say what I was a-goin’ to, for all Sam’s kicks under the table,” continued the hostess, defiantly regarding her confused offspring.
The confusion spread to Christopher, who looked at his plate and got red. Sam pushed back his chair; there was a very ugly scowl on his face. His undaunted mother addressed herself to their guest.
“No woman ever ’ad a better ’usband than Marley, though I ses it, but Sam here ’s that ’ard ’e won’t let me speak of my own man if ’e can ’elp ’it. ’Is own father, too. Ah, if ’e ’ad ’ad a bad father, Sam would ’ave know what to be thankful for.”
“I’m thankful ’e’s gone,” burst out Sam, with sudden anger. “I asks you, ’ow’s a cove to get on when he’s ’itched up to a father wot’s done time? Why, old Greenum gave me a shillin’ a week less than ’e ought, cos why, ’e knew I couldn’t ’old out with a father like that,” and he eyed his mother wrathfully.
“A better ’usband no woman ’ad,” sobbed Mrs. Sartin. “When ’e came out ’e didn’t seem to get no chance and so....”
“Is he in London?” asked Christopher, nervously gulping down some tea.