“What?” she screamed.
“Yes; we’ve had a row, Jane and I. I have sent her packing. I paid her her wages—told her to pack up and go—not later than to-morrow. She was cheeky to me—you teach them all to be damned cheeky to me—and I won’t stand it.” He filled his glass again, pouring with a want of precision that spoke of many previous attacks on the bottle.
“Jane cannot have meant”—his wife murmured humbly, cowed by the enormity of the misfortune that had befallen her. Jane was her ally, her confidante, her all.
“Oh, yes; Jane meant it fast enough. Don’t talk to me about it. To-morrow she goes!”
He brought his fist heavily down upon the table. His wife started, a start partly real, partly affected.
“If Jane goes, I go.”
“Nonsense, you are not a servant—I have not dismissed you!”
“Dismiss!” She tossed her head. Then the real, imminent need of propitiating Mortimer occurred to her. She must keep Jane at the cost of all humiliation. “Mortimer, listen—it puts me out very much. I have a dinner party of twelve next week!”
“The deuce you have! What a woman you are for kick-ups! And I don’t suppose there is a soul coming that I shall care twopence for! Well, you must put it off, that’s all!”
“One doesn’t do these things!”