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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
100
“Yes.
Mrs
Jamieson
most
kindly
and
condescendingly
said
she
would
be
happy
to
come.
One
little
stipulation
she
made,
that
she
should
bring
Carlo.
I
told
her
that
if
I
had
a
weakness,
it
was
for
dogs.”
“And
Miss
Pole?”
questioned
Miss
Matty,
who
was
thinking
of
her
pool
at
Preference,
in
which
Carlo
would
not
be
available
as
a
partner.
“I
am
going
to
ask
Miss
Pole.
Of
course,
I
could
not
think
of
asking
her
until
I
had
asked
you,
madam—
the
rector’s
daughter,
madam.
Believe
me,
I
do
not
forget
the
situation
my
father
held
under
yours.”
“And
Mrs
Forrester,
of
course?”
“And
Mrs
Forrester.
I
thought,
in
fact,
of
going
to
her
before
I
went
to
Miss
Pole.
Although
her
circumstances
are
changed,
madam,
she
was
born
a
Tyrrell,
and
we
can
never
forget
her
alliance
to
the
Bigges,
of
Bigelow
Hall.”
Miss
Matty
cared
much
more
for
the
little
circumstance
of
her
being
a
very
good
card-player.
“Mrs
Fitz-Adam—
I
suppose”—
“No,
madam.
I
must
draw
a
line
somewhere.
Mrs
Jamieson
would
not,
I
think,
like
to
meet
Mrs
Fitz-Adam.
I
have
the
greatest
respect
for
Mrs
Fitz-Adam—
but
I
cannot
think
her
fit
society
for
such
ladies
as
Mrs
Jamieson
and
Miss
Matilda
Jenkyns.”
Miss
Betty
Barker
bowed
low
to
Miss
Matty,
and
pursed
up
her
mouth.
She
looked
at
me
with
sidelong
dignity,
as
much
as
to
say,
although
a
retired
milliner,
she
was
no
democrat,
and
understood
the
difference
of
ranks.
“May
I
beg
you
to
come
as
near
half-past
six
to
my
little
dwelling,
as
possible,
Miss
Matilda?
Mrs
Jamieson
dines
at
five,
but
has
kindly
promised
not
to
delay
her
visit
beyond
that
time—
half-past
six.”
And
with
a
swimming
curtsey
Miss
Betty
Barker
took
her
leave.
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