“This is it, I suppose,” he said. “‘A woman—I should say an idiot—left a pheasant, minus’—”
“No more a hidyot than yourself, young man, nor a minus neither,” cried the woman, swelling with indignation, and red in the face.
Just then a lady entered the shop, and approached the counter hurriedly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, almost in a shriek of astonishment, “Mr Aspel!”
“Mr Aspel, indeed,” cried the woman, with ineffable scorn,—“Mr Impudence, more like. Give me my bird, I say!”
The lady raised her veil, and displayed the amazed face of Miss Lillycrop.
“I came to inquire for my old friend—I’m so grieved; I was not aware—Mr Aspel—”
“Give me my bird, I say!” demanded the virago.
“Step this way, madam,” said Aspel, driven almost to distraction as he opened the door of the back shop. “Mrs Murridge, show this lady up to Mr Blurt’s room.—Now then, woman, take your—your—brute, and be off.”
He thrust the one-eyed pheasant into the customer’s bosom with such vigour that, fearing a personal assault, she retreated to the door. There she came to a full stop, turned about, raised her right hand savagely, exclaimed “You’re another!” let her fingers go off with the force of a pea-cracker, and, stumbling into the street, went her devious way.