“Indeed, sir,” retorted Mrs. Pomfret, rising in anger, “I do not forget; I’m not come to be supperannuated yet, I hope. How do you dare to tell me I forget?”
“Oh, ma’am,” cried Felix, “I beg your pardon, I did not—I did not mean to say you forgot, but only I thought, perhaps, you might not particularly remember; for if you please to recollect—”
“I won’t please to recollect just whatever you please, sir! Hold your tongue; why should you poke yourself into this scrape; what have you to do with it, I should be glad to know?”
“Nothing in the world, oh nothing in the world; I’m sure I beg your pardon, ma’am,” answered Felix, in a soft tone; and, sneaking off, left his friend Corkscrew to fight his own battle, secretly resolving to desert in good time, if he saw any danger of the alehouse transactions coming to light.
Corkscrew could make but very blundering excuses for himself and, conscious of guilt, he turned pale, and appeared so much more terrified than butlers usually appear when detected in a lie, that Mrs. Pomfret resolved, as she said, to sift the matter to the bottom. Impatiently did she wait till the clock struck nine, and her mistress’ bell rang, the signal for her attendance at her levee.
“How do you find yourself this morning, ma’am?” said she, undrawing the curtains.
“Very sleepy, indeed,” answered her mistress in a drowsy voice; “I think I must sleep half an hour longer—shut the curtains.”
“As you please, ma’am; but I suppose I had better open a little of the window shutter, for it’s past nine.”
“But just struck.”
“Oh dear, ma’am, it struck before I came upstairs, and you know we are twenty minutes slow—Lord bless us!” exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, as she let fall the bar of the window, which roused her mistress. “I’m sure I beg your pardon a thousand times—it’s only the bar—because I had this great key in my hand.”