“A happy new year to you, Mrs. Clowes!” said our friend Jabez to his friend the old confectioner, as at one stride he took the two steps to her confined shop on the bright frosty second of January, 1823, and extended his hand to her across the counter, where she still kept up a show of activity in spite of age and wrinkles.
“Same to you, Mr. Clegg.”
She had been one of the first to recognise his right to the prefix, and with all her old-fashioned familiarity never dropped it.
“Eh, but now I look at thee, thah doesn’t look ower bright an’ happy;” and she peered into his face inquiringly.
He smiled.
“Looks are not always to be relied on. I ought to be happy, for I am about to be married, and my errand hither is to——”
She interrupted him with—
“So I’ve heard. But what o’that? Is she th’ reet un? For I wouldna give a mince-pie for thi happiness if she isna.”
The blood mounted painfully to his forehead.
“Miss Chadwick is all that is estimable and amiable, Mrs. Clowes,” he answered steadily, “and if I am not happy with her it will be my own fault.”