The Dadds’ independence saved Oliver the trouble—which worried him at the Polleys, of having perpetually to rebut the attacks which Mrs. Polley with her high spirit made on his supposed conversion to fine living. Mrs. Polley would not—any more than old Dadd—deign to accommodate herself to Oliver Constable’s presumed new standard, but she would persist in bringing it up in the form of testy apologies for the deprivations he had to suffer. ‘Of course, our teas ain’t like the meals you’ve been accustomed to, Mr. Oliver,’ she always began, exasperatingly. ‘French cooks and a dozen courses, I dare say, no less will serve you now—I am sure I pity your sister—and your choice of wines every day. All I can say for our poached eggs and fried mackerel is they are new laid and I know the hens as laid them, while the fish is fresh and done to a turn, though I say it that should not. They are honest English dishes honestly come by and paid for.’ Then the girls would giggle and protest. ‘Oh! mother!’ in chorus. And ’Mily, the youngest and most forward of the sisters, would toss her elaborately dressed head and cry, ‘I hope you are not hard to please, Mr. Oliver; I should never put myself about to cosset any man. There!’ At last the poor creature the father, whose wife had stood in the breach, and prevented him from dragging down the family to ruin, would edge in his word and declare solemnly—not without a timid attempt at pleasing his mistress, who was not great enough to forget what she had done for him—‘Missus Polley never did go in for kickshaws or waste; she always was a one to prefer what was plain and satisfying.’ In return for the tribute cast at her feet, Mrs. Polley would look round with complacent contempt, and charge her husband: ‘You shut up, Polley, and eat your victuals; you know you have a trick of keeping the table waiting. I am glad none of the gals take after you, unless it be Liza—soft thing! Slow at meat is slow at work. You may be thankful I never were a dawdler, and that I went in—the greater fool I—for looking after you.’ Whereupon poor Mr. Polley would subside into silence and the munching of his food as fast as his few teeth would go. And the girls would titter afresh and cry again, ‘Oh! mother!’ in another round of family applause. Only Liza would protest against the accusation of procrastination—particularly where her favourite ‘beverage’ was in question. They all knew, Liza said—almost as solemnly and pompously as her father spoke—that she could sip tea morning, noon, and night. There was no substitute for it—unless lemonade. ‘Or beer—especially when Jack Dadd is having a glass,’ suggested ’Mily, flippantly.