But when Miss Pole asked me, in an
audible whisper, "if he did not remind me of the Father of the
Faithful?" I could not help thinking of poor Simon Jones, the lame
tailor, and while Mrs Jamieson slowly commented on the elegance and
convenience of the attitude, I remembered how we had all followed
that lady's lead in condemning Mr Hoggins for vulgarity because he
simply crossed his legs as he sat still on his chair. Many of Mr
Peter's ways of eating were a little strange amongst such ladies as
Miss Pole, and Miss Matty, and Mrs Jamieson, especially when I
recollected the untasted green peas and two-pronged forks at poor
Mr Holbrook's dinner.
The mention of that gentleman's name recalls to my mind a
conversation between Mr Peter and Miss Matty one evening in the
summer after he returned to Cranford. The day had been very hot,
and Miss Matty had been much oppressed by the weather, in the heat
of which her brother revelled. I remember that she had been unable
to nurse Martha's baby, which had become her favourite employment
of late, and which was as much at home in her arms as in its
mother's, as long as it remained a light-weight, portable by one so
fragile as Miss Matty. This day to which I refer, Miss Matty had
seemed more than usually feeble and languid, and only revived when
the sun went down, and her sofa was wheeled to the open window,
through which, although it looked into the principal street of
Cranford, the fragrant smell of the neighbouring hayfields came in
every now and then, borne by the soft breezes that stirred the dull
air of the summer twilight, and then died away.
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