“Did I? One never knows,” replied her niece negligently, sauntering up to the piano, and opening it.
“I’ll be bound you knew well enough, Fibby. Wanted to be rid of the old woman, eh? Well, I’m glad I defeated your little plans, and saw your friend, who seemed a sensible sort of woman, not the flyabastic sort you generally get here. Pity but she’d seen Mortimer!”
“Do you think Mortimer would have impressed her?” asked his wife, bitterly.
“And why not? Are you ashamed of your husband, Fibby? It’s my belief that you are ashamed of us all, and hankering after those London people and the ramshackle life they seem to lead. Gallant times they have, to be sure! Thinking only of themselves and their pleasures and making love to each other’s wives! And you are just savage because you aren’t there, too! Oh! I know you!”
Mrs. Elles had broken out into a stormy mazurka that nearly drowned Mrs. Poynder’s words, as possibly she intended it to do. “Ay! ay!” the latter remarked, “work it off that way—I advise you!”
“Don’t insult me, aunt!”
Mrs. Poynder laughed in her own harsh fashion, and, looking towards the door whose handles just then turned, called out, “Come in, Mortimer! Come and speak to this wife of yours!”
The clumsy, thick-necked man who entered stopped short and looked round stupidly; his wife sat with her back turned, playing; his aunt stood there, smiling her cruel, blighting smile, that showed a set of the most perfectly formed teeth that money could buy. He took his cue from her, and going across the room, laid a heavy hand on his wife’s shoulder, saying kindly,
“What’s the matter, old lady?”
“Oh, Mortimer, please don’t call me that. I can’t bear it!”