“Mr. Catchpole,” replied Mrs. Furze, “the introduction of the sacred name in such a conjunction is, I may say, rather shocking, and even blasphemous. Here is your money: you had better go.”
Tom left the money and walked out of the room.
“Good-bye, Phœbe.”
“Are you going to leave, Tom?”
“Discharged!”
“I knew there was some villainy going on,” said Phœbe, greatly excited, as she took Tom’s hand and wrung it, “but you aren’t really going for good?”
“Yes;” and he was out in the street.
“H’m,” said Mr. Furze, “it’s very disagreeable. I don’t quite like it.”
“Don’t quite like it?—why, what would you have done? would you have had Catharine marry him? I have no patience with you, Furze!”
Mr. Furze subsided, but he did not move to go to his business, and Mrs. Furze went down into the kitchen. Mr. Eaton had called at the shop at that early hour wishing to see Mr. Furze or Tom. He was to return shortly, and Mr. Orkid Jim, not knowing exactly what to do with such a customer, and, moreover, being rather curious, had left a boy in charge and walked back to the Terrace.