"Noan at all. I've niver seed her. No one has ever seed her. She's more banshee than woman, I do belave."
True to her threat, Mrs. Handsomebody stopped at the cobbler's that afternoon, at the outset of our accustomed promenade. The birds were in full chorus as we descended the steps into the shop.
The cobbler got to his feet, and touched his forehead respectfully. This pleased Mrs. Handsomebody.
"My good man," she said, "You have sadly overcharged me for putting a new heel on this child's boot. I said, when I sent it that it was worth sixpence—"
The cobbler opened his mouth to speak.
—"Now, don't interrupt," continued Mrs. Handsomebody. "I shall not ask you to refund the sixpence; but I have brought a prunella gaiter of my own which needs stitching, and I shall expect you to do it, without extra charge, if you wish to retain the patronage of my household."
Here was a test of manhood! Would Martindale, a full-grown male, submit to being bullied by a creature who wore a bustle, and a black silk apron? Alas, for the whiskered sex! He took his medicine; just as we, hedged in some fateful corner, gulped down our castor oil. Turning the gaiter over in his dark hands, he meekly assented. Mrs. Handsomebody, appeased by her easy victory, inquired after his wife.
"Oh, poorly as usual, thank you ma'am," he said.
"I should think that country life would be much better for her."
"She's even worse in the country."