“Father says, ken’t you send a message; he’s busy,” she clipped. (You will, perhaps, observe “Father” in the picture.) I said “No,” out of sheer contrariness, and added that I only wanted to ask him one question.
She returned again to the parlour, where a short conversation of whispers and snorts took place.
“He says he doesn’t mind the voting, and you can leave it,” was the next message. “He’ll see about it.... No, you needn’t put him down anything at all; he ken’t attend to you now.”
I found Polly sitting with her feet up on the sofa, trying to pour out tea. “It’s all right,” she said, in answer to my criticism of her manners. “I have just been arguing with a gentleman of the name of Potts, who kept his feet up the whole time I was talking to him. I never got a word in. He just lay and smoked, and talked me down, so I thought I would come home and revenge myself on his memory.”
“I wish you would hurry up and give me some tea,” I said.
“Mr. Potts was just about to enjoy his when I called,” Polly continued, aggravatingly suspending the teapot. “‘’E’s just come ’ome to ’is tea, Miss,’ his silly wife, with a black eye, informed me—as if that were any excuse for lying on the sofa when a lady called.”
“Quite so,” I replied. “Please get up and pass me the cake.”
“All right,” said Polly. “Well, as I was saying, I said to Mr. Potts, ‘Oh, Mr. Potts, I was just canvassing for my,’ etc. etc. Mr. Potts shifted his pipe and spat, and then bellowed at me, ‘Well, I’m a ——’—now what was it he said he was? How stupid! I can’t remember.”