In a quiet way Mr Rubb did talk to his neighbour. Upstairs he had spoken a word or two about Littlebath, saying how glad he was that he had been there. He should always remember Littlebath as one of the pleasantest places he had ever seen. He wished that he lived at Littlebath; but then what was the good of his wishing anything, knowing as he did that he was bound for life to Rubb and Mackenzie’s counting house!

“And you will earn your livelihood there,” Miss Mackenzie had replied.

“Yes; and something more than that I hope. I don’t mind telling you,—a friend like you,—that I will either spoil a horn or make a spoon. I won’t go on in the old groove, which hardly gives any of us salt to our porridge. If I understand anything of English commerce, I think I can see my way to better things than that.” Then the period of painful waiting had commenced, and he was unable to say anything more.

That had been upstairs. Now below, amidst all the troubles of Mrs Mackenzie and the tyranny of Grandairs, he began again:

“Do you like London dinner parties?”

“I never was at one before.”

“Never at one before! I thought you had lived in London all your life.”

“So I have; but we never used to dine out. My brother was an invalid.”

“And do they do the thing well at Littlebath?”

“I never dined out there. You think it very odd, I dare say, but I never was at a dinner party in my life—not before this.”

“Don’t the Balls see much company?”

“No, very little; none of that kind.”

“Dear me. It comes so often to us here that we get tired of it. I do, at least. I’m not always up to this kind of thing. Champagne—if you please. Miss Mackenzie, you will take some champagne?”

Now had come the crisis of the evening, the moment that was all important, and Grandairs was making his round in all the pride of his vocation. But Mrs Mackenzie was by no means so proud at the present conjuncture of affairs. There was but one bottle of champagne. “So little wine is drank now, that, what is the good of getting more? Of course the children won’t have it.” So she had spoken to her husband. And who shall blame her or say where economy ends, or where meanness begins? She had wanted no champagne herself, but had wished to treat her friends well. She had seized a moment after Grandairs had come, and Mrs Slumpy was not yet there, to give instructions to the great functionary.

“Don’t mind me with the champagne, nor yet Mr Tom, nor the young ladies.”

Thus she had reduced the number to six, and had calculated that the bottle would certainly be good for that number, with probably a second glass for the doctor and Mr Rubb. But Grandairs had not condescended to be put out of his way by such orders as these. The bottle had first come to Miss Colza, and then Tom’s glass had been filled, and Susanna’s—through no fault of theirs, innocent bairns, “but on purpose!” as Mrs Mackenzie afterwards declared to her husband when speaking of the man’s iniquity. And I think it had been done on purpose. The same thing occurred with Mary Jane—till Mrs Mackenzie, looking on, could have cried. The girl’s glass was filled full, and she did give a little shriek at last. But what availed shrieking? When the bottle came round behind Mrs Mackenzie back to Dr Slumpy, it was dry, and the wicked wretch held the useless nozzle triumphantly over the doctor’s glass.