It was not easy, under the circumstances, but the ladies shifted their chairs a little, and the Dominie was finally installed in his. He was coughing with overwhelming seriousness. He looked round on the company, drew out a roll of papers, pulled his wig to one side, and spoke:
“Juffrouw Pieterse! you are an honest, respectable woman,—and your late husband—sold shoes——”
Juffrouw Pieterse cast on Juffrouw Laps a glance of vindictive triumph.
“Yes, sir, he did!”
“Don’t interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your deceased consort sold shoes. I have had your children at my school, from the time when they were so high, to their confirmation. Is not that true, Juffrouw Pieterse?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, somewhat uneasily, for she began to be frightened at the impressive solemnity of Pennewip’s tone. “Yes, that’s true, Dominie!”
“And I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether you, so long as you, through the means of your children, have had anything to do with my school, have had any complaints—I mean, well-founded complaints, Juffrouw Pieterse—to make of the way in which I—with the help of my wife—have given your numerous offspring instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch history, psalm-singing, sewing, knitting, marking, and religion? That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse.”
A ghastly silence. The neighbour in the back-room downstairs, who had repeatedly complained of the noise during the evening, had every reason to be satisfied.
“That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse,” repeated the Dominie, putting on the pince-nez, which was considered antiquated in those days—destined, as it was, to become the height of fashion some decades later.
“But, Dominie——”