"David?"
"Mrs. Dundyke's son. We are to be married sometime."
Mildred had the honour of an introduction to the gentleman before she left—for Mr. David came in—a young man above the middle height, somewhat free and confident in his address and manners. He was not bad-looking, and he was attired sufficiently well; for the house he was in, in Fenchurch-street, was one of the first houses of its class, and would not have tolerated shabbiness in any of its clerks. The shirt-sleeve episodes, the blacking-boot and carrying-up coal attire, so vivid in the remembrance of Charlotte Travice, were kept for home, for late at night and early morning. Of this, Mildred saw nothing, heard nothing.
"He has eighty pounds a year now," whispered Betsey to Mildred; "his next rise will be a hundred and fifty. And then, when it has got to that——," the blush on the cheeks, the downcast eyes, told the rest.
"Them there shrimps ain't bad; take some more of 'em."
Mildred positively started—not at the invitation so abruptly given to her, but at the wording of it. It was the first sentence she had heard him speak. Had he framed it in joke?
No; it was his habitual manner of speaking. She cast her compassionate eyes on Betsey Travice, just as Charlotte would have cast her indignant ones. But Betsey was used to him, and did not feel the degradation.
"Now, mother, don't you worry your inside out after that girl," he said, as Mrs. Dundyke, for the fiftieth time, plunged into the kitchen, groaning over the shortcomings of the servant. "You won't live no longer for it. Betsey, just put them two squalling chickens down, and pour me out a drop more tea; make yourself useful if you can till mother comes back. Won't you take no more, Miss Arkell?"
"Betsey," asked Mildred, in a low tone, as they were alone for a few minutes when Mildred was about to leave, "do you like Mr. David Dundyke?"
Betsey's face was sufficient answer.