“Lavvy and Ma,” said Bella, “I say of Mr. and Mrs. Boffin what I always have said; and I always shall say of them what I always have said. But nothing will induce me to quarrel with anyone tonight. I hope you are not sorry to see me, Ma dear,” kissing her; “and I hope you are not sorry to see me, Lavvy,” kissing her too; “and as I notice the lettuce Ma mentioned, on the table, I’ll make the salad.”
Bella playfully setting herself about the task, Mrs. Wilfer’s impressive countenance followed her with glaring eyes, presenting a combination of the once popular sign of the Saracen’s Head, with a piece of Dutch clockwork, and suggesting to an imaginative mind that from the composition of the salad, her daughter might prudently omit the vinegar. But no word issued from the majestic matron’s lips. And this was more terrific to her husband (as perhaps she knew) than any flow of eloquence with which she could have edified the company.
“Now, Ma dear,” said Bella in due course, “the salad’s ready, and it’s past suppertime.”
Mrs. Wilfer rose, but remained speechless. “George!” said Miss Lavinia in her voice of warning, “Ma’s chair!” Mr. Sampson flew to the excellent lady’s back, and followed her up close chair in hand, as she stalked to the banquet. Arrived at the table, she took her rigid seat, after favouring Mr. Sampson with a glare for himself, which caused the young gentleman to retire to his place in much confusion.
The cherub not presuming to address so tremendous an object, transacted her supper through the agency of a third person, as “Mutton to your Ma, Bella, my dear”; and “Lavvy, I dare say your Ma would take some lettuce if you were to put it on her plate.” Mrs. Wilfer’s manner of receiving those viands was marked by petrified absence of mind; in which state, likewise, she partook of them, occasionally laying down her knife and fork, as saying within her own spirit, “What is this I am doing?” and