I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made
no remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after
dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I
cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama said to me on her retiring for
the night: in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach
that completely subdued me: 'George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your
wife's nurse!'

I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I,
writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate
animosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria
Jane? I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and
not Mrs. Prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter
female brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling.

We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes
exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and
'Mrs. Prodgit!' announced (and she was very often announced),
misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that
I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs.
Prodgit's presence. Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit,
there was a dreadful, secret, understanding - a dark mystery and
conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I appeared
to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room - where the
temperature is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year -
and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my
rack of boots; a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my
opinion, an exhilarating object. The length of the councils that