“You should have married a man like father,” she said. “That’s the sort of husband you should have had, who would have pulled you out of bed by your hair and given you a good sound hiding. Daniel’s thousands of miles too good for you.”
Lizzie turned round and faced her passionately, straining at the ends of her stay-lace.
“I wish sometimes he would beat me. There! I’ll make him do it one of these days.”
“Dan’s not the man to treat his wife like a dog.”
“No. He treats me like a tabby-cat—beneath his notice. He has always done it. I may be a silly fool, but it doesn’t require much intellec’ to know when folks look upon you as the dirt beneath their feet.”
“Well, the dirt ought to be grateful when a man like Daniel condescends to put his foot upon it,” replied Emily with conviction.
“Why didn’t you marry him yourself?” said Lizzie witheringly.
“Elizabeth Goddard, you’re no better than a fool,” returned Emily. “And if you’ve nothing pleasanter to say, I’ll go back home.”
As on many previous occasions, the threat moved Lizzie to tears, then to reproaches, finally to entreaties and submission. When peace was made they went off on a shopping expedition to Kensington High Street, where Lizzie, to make amends, bought her cousin a bonnet, and interested herself in a discussed readjustment of trimming. But outside a newsvendor’s Emily pointed with her umbrella to an item in the contents bill of a Radical evening paper: “Dan Goddard at Stepney—Enthusiastic Reception.”
“Oh yes, I see,” said Lizzie petulantly. “I suppose you think I ought to fall down and worship him when he comes back.”