“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her. “If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers, and if it fails with her my power is gone.” Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye is sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition, or whether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances, are matters of opinion. The matter of fact is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine. On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked first incredulous, and afterwards, amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner. “Are you going to sit snoring there all day?” inquired Mrs. Bumble. “I am going to sit here as long as I think proper, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble; “and although I was _not_ snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me, such being my prerogative.” “Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt. “I said the word, ma’am,” observed Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of a man is to command.” “And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of goodness?” cried the relict of Mr. Corney, deceased. “To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late unfort’nate husband should have taught it you, and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!” Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance that the decisive moment had now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream, that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears. But tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats, that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest, the exercise being looked upon by the faculty as strongly conducive to health. “It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper,” said Mr. Bumble; “so cry away.”