But Mrs. Martha was in an unexampled state of vixenish crossness, and snapped venomously at mild Mrs. Beckett for the kindest offers of sparing Charlotte to assist her in her multiplied labours.  She seemed to be running after time all day long, with five dinners and teas upon her hands, poor woman, and allowing herself not the slightest relaxation, except to rush in for a few seconds to No. 7, to indulge herself by inveighing against the whole of the fine servants; and yet she was so proud of having lodgers at all, that she hated them for nothing so much as for threatening to go away.

The object of her bitterest invectives was the fastidious butler, Mr. Delaford, who by her account could do nothing for himself, grudged her mistresses their very sitting-room, drank wine with the ladies’ maids like a gentleman, and ordered fish for the second table; talked of having quitted a duke, and submitting to live with Lady Conway because he compassionated unprotected females, and my Lady was dependent on him for the care of Sir Walter in the holidays.  To crown his offences, he never cleaned his own plate, but drew sketches and played the guitar!  Moreover, Mrs. Martha had her notions that he was making that sickly Frenchified maid of Miss Conway’s much too fond of him; and as to his calling himself Mr. Delaford—­why, Mrs. Martha had a shrewd suspicion that he was some kin to her first cousin’s brother-in-law’s shopman’s wife in Tottenham-court-road, whose name she knew was Ford, and who had been picked out of a gutter!  The establishment of such a fact appeared as if it would be the triumph of Mrs. Martha’s life.  In the meantime, she more than hinted that she would wear herself to the bone rather than let Charlotte Arnold into the house; and Jane, generally assenting, though seldom going all lengths, used to divert the conversation by comparisons with Mr. Frampton’s politeness and consideration.  He never came to No. 5 to give trouble, only to help.

The invectives produced on Charlotte’s mind an effect the reverse of what was intended.  Mr. Delaford, a finer gentleman than Mr. Frampton and Mr. Poynings, must be a wonder of nature.  The guitar—­redolent of serenades and Spanish cloaks—­oh! but once to see and hear it!  The very rudeness of Mrs. Martha’s words, so often repeated, gave her a feeling in favour of their object.  She had known Mrs. Martha unjust before.  Poor Tom! if he had only been a Spaniard, he would have sung about the white dove—­his pretty thought—­in a serenade, but then he might have poignarded Mr. James in his passion, which would have been less agreeable—­she supposed he had forgotten her long ago—­and so much the better!