Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to assume a woful look; which woful look she now bestowed upon her patron.
“What’s the matter now, ma’am?” said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short, rough way.
“Pray, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “do not bite my nose off.”
“Bite your nose off, ma’am!” repeated Mr. Bounderby. “Your nose!” meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise.
Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, “Mr. Bounderby, sir!”
“Well, ma’am?” retorted Mr. Bounderby. “What are you staring at?”
“May I ask, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “have you been ruffled this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“May I inquire, sir,” pursued the injured woman, “whether I am the unfortunate cause of your having lost temper?”
“Now, I’ll tell you what, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “I am not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can’t be permitted to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it.” (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on; foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.)
Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose.
“Sir,” said she, majestically. “It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment.”
“Allow me to open the door, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself.”
“You had better allow me, ma’am,” said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; “because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there’s hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people’s affairs.”
Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, “Really, sir?”
“I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma’am,” said Bounderby; “and it appears to my poor judgment – ”
“Oh! Pray, sir,” Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, “don’t disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby’s judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing.
Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed:
“It appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether, would bring out a lady of your powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers’s now. Don’t you think you might find some affairs there, ma’am, to interfere with?”
“It never occurred to me before, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit; “but now you mention it, I should think it highly probable.”
“Then suppose you try, ma’am,” said Bounderby laying an envelope with a cheque in it, in her little basket. “You can take your own time for going, ma’am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you – being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown – for having stood in your light so long.”
“Pray don’t name it, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “If that portrait could speak, sir, – but it has the advantage over the original of not possessing the power of committing itself and disgusting others, – it would testify, that a long period has elapsed since I first habitually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodle does, can awaken surprise or indignation; the proceedings of a Noodle can only inspire contempt.”
Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features like a medal struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed the door, and stood before the fire; projecting himself after his old explosive manner into his portrait – and into futurity.