In the laundry, later on, she announced within earshot of Mrs.Clerihew that, as was well beknown, Clerihew had lost his last three places for bottle-stealing; and Mrs.Royle, acknowledged virago of St.Hospital, took up the accusation and blared it obscenely.
For a good five minutes the pair mauled Mrs.Clerihew, who, with an air of high gentility, went on ironing shirts.

She had been a lady's maid when Clerihew married her, and could command, as a rule, a high-bred, withering sneer.

Unhappily, the united attack of Mrs.
Ibbetson and Mrs.Royle goaded her so far beyond the bounds of breeding that of a sudden she upped and called the latter a bitch; whereupon, feeling herself committed, this ordinarily demure woman straightened her spine and followed up the word with a torrent of filthy invective that took the whole laundry aback.
Her success was but momentary.

Mrs.Royle had a character to maintain.

Fetching a gasp, she let fly the dirtiest word one woman can launch at another, and on the instant made a grab at Mrs.
Clerihew's brow.