“Yes, indeed, it behoves you, Mrs. Potts, to keep a sharp look-out. Will you visit her—the good-for-naught?”
“W-e-ll, what do you think about it? If we cut her all the village will. What say you?”
“To be sure, to be sure, that’s true; her place in society depends upon us, my dear. She gives such pleasant parties, such excellent soft waffles, and then one meets sometimes such agreeable people from the city there, which gives the girls a chance, you know, (winking knowingly,) that it would be a pity to throw her off.”
“I agree with you, my dear Miss Clapper—and—after all, she’s honestly married, although she stole away, like a thief in the night.”
“Suppose we just stop and ask Katy a few questions. May be they wish to keep it a secret. Here we are by the house—shall we stop?”
“I have no objections, my dear; but you’ll get nothing out of that piece of sour-crout.”
“I’ll pump her; leave me alone for that.”
Accordingly the two loving, neighborly gossips rapt at the door of the white cottage from whence had stolen forth the fugitives the night previous.
The loud knock announced the aristocracy of the village; the door opened, and the sharp bluish features of Katy filled up the aperture. Her small gravy eyes blinked for a moment when she beheld the visitors; the next Katy stood the personification of gravity.
“Well, Katy,” cried Miss Clapper, in her most dulcet tones, “how do you do this fine morn? all well, I hope,” making an effort to open wider the door.