Why, all that time when he used to come
breakfasting with Mr. Pontifex morning after morning, it took me to
a perfect shadow the way he carried on. There was no doing anything to
please him right. First I used to get them eggs and bacon, and he
didn't like that; and then I got him a bit of fish, and he didn't like
that, or else it was too dear, and you know fish is dearer than
ever; and then I got him a bit of German, and he said it rose on
him; then I tried sausages, and he said they hit him in the eye
worse even than German; oh! how I used to wander my room and fret
about it inwardly and cry for hours, and all about them paltry
breakfasts- and it wasn't Mr. Pontifex; he'd like anything that anyone
chose to give him.
"And so the piano's to go," she continued. "What beautiful tunes Mr.
Pontifex did play upon it, to be sure; and there was one I liked
better than any I ever heard. I was in the room when he played it once
and when I said, 'Oh, Mr. Pontifex, that's the kind of woman I am,' he
said, 'No, Mrs. Jupp, it isn't, for this tune is old, but no one can
say you are old.' But, bless you, he meant nothing by it, it was
only his mucky flattery.
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