"My cousin's name," said John Edward shortly, "is Mrs. Thompson.... There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
It nearly always happened that he found Mrs. Thompson with her back turned towards him. Then he would put two somewhat grubby hands on her shoulders, with cousinly playfulness pull her round the right way, and publicly kiss her. This was an act of affection, and a triumphant assertion of the relationship—something more for those foppish shopwalkers to put in their pipes and smoke.
"Cousin Jenny, how goes it?"
Then, after the kiss, he would look at her reproachfully, and begin to grumble.
"Cousin Jenny, you drove through Haggart's Cross last Thursday in your carriage and pair. I saw you. But you didn't see me. No, you didn't think of stopping the horses for half a minute, and passing the time of day to your cousin."
Mrs. Thompson used smilingly to lead him into the counting-house, give him kind words, give him good money. He took the money grumblingly, as if it was the least that could be offered as atonement for the neglectfulness of last Thursday; but he went home very happy.
He had done all this scores of times, and Mrs. Thompson had borne it all with unflinching generosity. But now, on a broiling July day, he did it once too often. He got as far as the public salute, and no further.
She was upstairs, standing near a desk, with her back towards China and Glass. He came behind her, playfully laid hold of her, kissed her. She gave a cry, turned upon him in a white fury, and, seeing who he was, snapped his head off.
That day he did not go home happy.