There was a supper tray after we got home at night, and I think we should all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable domestic occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid came in, and said, “If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you.”
“Speak to your master?” said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused again. “How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or speak to me—at some other time.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” returned the housemaid, “I should wish to speak at once, and to speak to master.”
Hereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of ourselves until he came back.
“This is a pretty thing, Belinda!” said Mr. Pocket, returning with a countenance expressive of grief and despair. “Here’s the cook lying insensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh butter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease!”
Mrs. Pocket instantly showed much amiable emotion, and said, “This is that odious Sophia’s doing!”
“What do you mean, Belinda?” demanded Mr. Pocket.
“Sophia has told you,” said Mrs. Pocket. “Did I not see her with my own eyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask to speak to you?”
“But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda,” returned Mr. Pocket, “and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?”