"It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'm disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks—she's always drinking. It's a great shame, and a great story, of you, if you say you didn't smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner, you know it was!"
"My dear, I don't know it," said I.
"You do," she said, very shortly. "You sha'n't say you don't. You do!"
"O, my dear!" said I, "if you won't let me speak—"
"You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss Summerson."
"My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out—"
"I don't want to hear you out."
"O yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it."
"You needn't make a merit of that," said she.
"No, my dear," said I. "That would be very foolish."