"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 down stairs, Belinda," returned Mr. Pocket,
"and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?"
"And do you defend her, Matthew," said Mrs. Pocket, "for making
mischief?"
Mr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.
"Am I, grandpapa's granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?" said Mrs.
Pocket. "Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful woman,
and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after the
situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess."
There was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the
attitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a
hollow voice, "Good night, Mr. Pip," when I deemed it advisable to go to
bed and leave him.