Jeanie cried out, ‘I never thaid that!’171

The outcry was slavish. That the repulsive Jeanie should be cowed as well as Sir Leopold slighted added new intrepidity to Aubrey’s wish to make himself thoroughly disagreeable. ‘I mean as regards the readings from Krafft-Ebing. Smale, the saddler, was an unfortunate choice. He is proposing to be next year’s mayor, so he is quite unable to admit the smallest defect in anyone’s character. You could not have known this, of course. But if you have ever bought as much as a pair of galoshes from Vickery—I suppose you wore them during your school days?—you should have known the extent of Vickery’s horizon. If an archangel, even—some really arresting figure—were to enter his shop, he would receive it as a customer. Naturally, Vickery supposed you wanted buttoned boots for your own wear. No doubt it was disconcerting. But you have only yourself to blame.’

‘Smale and Vickery were not the only people I called on,’ said Dulcibella, helping herself to more mustard with sinister calm. ‘I also visited the editor of the Cornubian.’

There was no time to waste on repentance, and Aubrey hastened to deliver another blow before his shame caught up with him. ‘I hope you did not go there to impart your theory why the man fell off the ladder. Chattering about the Evil Eye would be even more ill-advised than reading Psychopathia Sexualis to respectable tradesmen. If you are really so anxious to blast Miss Foale’s reputation, you should try to be less fanciful in your methods.’

‘Fanthiful? My eye fanthiful? You’ll be thorry—’

Jeanie had got in first, but only to be gathered into Dulcibella’s unhurried eloquence. ‘Hold your tongue, my 172pet! Don’t get excited over such trifling slanders. You and I, Jeanie’—Dulcibella here seized Jeanie’s hand and patted it inattentively—‘came here openly and honourably, to do what we could in the cause of truth. If we have cast pearls before swine, at least we have done it in the light of day. We have not slunk to it anonymously, and forced dirty little articles into the provincial press, for no higher motive than pique that the miserable hovel we were born in has been pulled down. “Interesting associations and aroma of the past!” What associations? Mr Cutbush was born in it. “Aroma of the past!” Mr Cutbush’s infant napkins. Merciful God, what pettiness, what egotism, what utter disregard for truth! Opie was never in Tittingham in his life. No one had ever been in Tittingham except that woman Foale, who throve in it like a great proliferating pumpkin, and Mr Cutbush, who was born in it, and writes anonymously to the local press in a style of such flat-footed fustian that I would have supposed it to be Foale’s own if I did not know the bitch was dead. Throw it away, Jeanie! You have nothing to reproach yourself with. Nor have I, except that in my impetuosity I gave way to his boring importunities and brought you here to be exploited and insulted. For that, I can never forgive myself!’