“Really, mother, would you like to see father in a velvet jacket and one of those red-tasselled things on his head? I prefer the shirt-sleeves.”
“No doubt you do; you are a Furze, every inch of you.”
There is no saying to what a height the quarrel would have risen if a double knock had not been heard. A charwoman was in the passage with a pail of water and answered the door at once, before she could be cautioned. In an instant she appeared, apron tucked up.
“Mrs. Colston, mum,” and in Mrs. Colston walked.
Mrs. Furze made a dash at her husband’s clay pipe, forgetting that its destruction would not make matters better; but she only succeeded in upsetting the chair on which his legs rested, and in the confusion he slipped to the ground.
“Oh, Mrs. Colston, I am so sorry you have taken us by surprise; our house is being cleaned; pray walk upstairs—but oh dear, now I recollect the drawing-room is also turned out; what will you do, and the smell of the smoke, too!”
“Pray do not disconcert yourself,” replied the brewer’s wife, patronisingly; “I do not mind the smoke, at least for a few minutes.”
Mrs. Colston herself had objected strongly to calling on Mrs. Furze, but Mr. Colston had urged it as a matter of policy, with a view to Mr. Furze’s contributions to Church revenues.
“I have come purely on a matter of business, Mrs. Furze, and will not detain you.”
Mr. Furze had retreated into a dark corner, and was putting on his waistcoat with his back to his distinguished guest. Catharine sat at the window quite immovable. Suddenly Mrs. Furze bethought herself she ought to introduce her husband and daughter.