ay--a raw, crude way, brutally insulting to a lady. Iden had long
since exhausted his credit in the town; neither butcher, baker, draper,
nor anyone else would let them have a shilling's-worth until the
shilling had been placed on the counter. He had been forced lately to
deal with the little men of the villages--the little butcher who killed
once a fortnight; the petty cottagers' baker, and people of that kind.
Inferior meat and inferior bread on credit first; coarse language and
rudeness afterwards.

One day, the village baker, having got inside the door as Mrs. Iden
incautiously opened it, stood there and argued with her, while Amaryllis
in the garret put down her trembling pencil to listen.

"Mr. Iden will send it up," said her mother.

"Oh, he'll send it up. When will he send it up?"

"He'll send it up."

"He've a' said that every time, but it beant come yet. You tell un I be
come to vetch it."

"Mr. Iden's not in."

"I'll bide till he be in."

"He'll only tell you he'll send it up."

"I'll bide and see un. You've served I shameful. It's nothing but
cheating--that's what I calls it--to have things and never pay for um.
It's cheating."

Amaryllis tore downstairs, flushed with passion.

"How dare you say such a thing? How dare you insult my mother? Leave the
house this moment!"

And with both hands she literally pushed the man, unwilling, but not
absolutely resisting, outside, grumbling as he moved that he never
insulted nobody, only asked for his money.

A pleasing preparation this for steadiness of hand, calculated to
encourage the play of imagination! She could do nothing for hours
afterwards.

Just as often Iden was at home, and then it was worse, because it lasted
longer. First they talked by the potato-patch almost under the window;
then they talked on the path; then they came indoors, and then there
were words and grumbling sounds that rose up the staircase. By-and-by
they went out again and talked by the gate. At last the creditor
departed, and Iden returned indoors to take a glass of ale and sit a
moment till the freshness of the annoyance had left his mind. Mrs. Iden
then had her turn at him: the old story--why didn't he do something?
Amaryllis knew every word as well as if she had been sitting in the
room.

How Iden had patience with them Amaryllis could not think; how he could
stand, and be argued with, and abused, and threatened, and yet not take
the persecutor by the collar and quie