“My husband and daughter, Mrs. Colston.”
Mr. Furze turned half round, put his other arm into his waistcoat, and bowed. He had, of course, spoken to her scores of times in his shop, but he was not supposed to have seen her till that minute. Catharine rose, bowed, and sat down again.
“Take a chair, Mrs. Colston, take a chair,” said Mr. Furze, although he had again turned towards the curtain, and was struggling with his coat. Mrs. Furze, annoyed that her husband had anticipated her, pulled the easy-chair forward.
“I am afraid I deprived you of your seat,” said the lady, alluding, as Mrs. Furze had not the slightest doubt, to his tumble.
“Not a bit, ma’am, not a bit,” and he moved towards Catharine, feeling very uncomfortable, and not knowing what to do with his hands and legs.
“We are so much obliged to you, Mrs. Furze, for your subscription to the restoration fund, we find that a new pulpit is much required; the old pulpit, you will remember, is much decayed in parts, and will be out of harmony with the building when it is renovated. Young Mr. Cawston, who is being trained as an architect—the builder’s son, you know—has prepared a design which is charming, and the ladies wish to make the new pulpit a present solely from themselves.” The smoke got into Mrs. Colston’s throat, and she coughed. “We want you, therefore, to help us.”
“With the greatest pleasure.”
“Then how much shall I say? Five pounds?”
“Would you allow me just to look at the subscription list?” interposed Mr. Furze, humbly; but before it could be handed to him Mrs. Furze had settled the matter.
“Five pounds—oh yes, certainly, Mrs. Colston. Mr. Cawston is, I believe, a young man of talent?”