"That he is: side by side with Brumm. A nice pair of 'em! Charlotte East, take my advice; don't you have anything to say to Thorneycroft. A woman had better climb up to the top of her topmost chimbley and pitch herself off, head foremost, than marry a man given to drink."
Charlotte East felt vexed at the allusion—vexed that her name should be coupled openly with that of Adam Thorneycroft by the busy tongues of Honey Fair. That an attachment existed between herself and Adam Thorneycroft was true; but she did not wish the fact to become too apparent to others. Latterly she had been schooling her heart to forget him, for he was taking to frequent public-houses.
Mrs. Brumm went home, and was soon followed by her husband. He was not much the worse for what he had taken: he was a little. Mrs. Brumm reproached him with it, and a wordy war ensued.
They arose peaceably in the morning. Andrew was a civil, well-conducted man, and but for Horned Rams would have been a pattern to three parts of Honey Fair. He liked to be dressed well on Sunday and to attend the cathedral with his two children: he was very fond of listening to the chanting Mrs. Brumm—as was the custom generally with the wives of Honey Fair—stayed at home to cook the dinner. Andrew was accustomed to do many odd jobs on the Sunday morning, to save his wife trouble. He cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed his clothes, filled the coal-box, and made himself useful in sundry other ways. All this done, they sat down to breakfast with the two children, the unfortunate Jacky less black than he had been the previous night.
"Now, Jacky," said Brumm, when the meal was over, "get yourself ready; it has gone ten. Polly too."
"It's a'most too cold for Polly this morning," said Mrs. Brumm.
"Not a bit on't. The walk'll do her good, and give her an appetite for dinner. What is for dinner, Bell? I asked you before, but you didn't answer."
"It ain't much thanks to you as there's anything," retorted Mrs. Brumm, who rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arabella. "You plant yourself again at the Horned Ram, and see if I worries myself to come after you for money. I'll starve on the Sunday first."
"I can't think what goes of your money," returned Andrew. "There had not used to be this fuss if I stopped out for half an hour on the Saturday night, with my wages in my pocket. Where does yours go to?"
"It goes in necessaries," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. But not caring for reasons of her own to pursue this particular topic, she turned to that of the dinner. "I have half a shoulder of mutton, and I'm going to take it to the bake'us with a batter pudden under it, and to boil the taters at home."