She had so often heard them lament the absence of any good dressmaking in the place, except their own, that she was greatly disappointed to find her overtures on behalf of Millie met with blank looks and solemn silence. Miss Coxen smoothed her apron, and Miss Sophy pulled her ringlets, and neither uttered any response.
"I thought you'd be quite delighted," hazarded Jessie.
"My dear, you expect—really—too much!" Sophy took her cue from Miss Coxen's face. "That we should be delighted—" Miss Sophy began to sniffle, "delighted—to have the bread taken out of our mouths!" Another sniffle,—"By this interloper from foreign parts—"
"But—" protested the dismayed Jessie.
"She is no doubt quite an experienced dressmaker. O yes, and up in all the fashions! She will leave us far behind!" sighed Miss Coxen.
"And to think of Miss Perkins being the one to bring this calamity on our heads," wept Miss Sophy—"our old friend, Miss Perkins! And Jessie!—that I dandled on my lap, when she wasn't that high—" and Miss Sophy sniffled anew.
"But I thought you wanted help so much. I'm sure you have always said so."
"O dear, dear, how people do misunderstand one!" moaned Miss Sophy in mournful tones.
"A little moderate amount of help, my dear, just at pressing times, we might require; but not to be supplanted,—not to have the food taken out of our mouths by a London dressmaker," murmured Miss Coxen. "A first-class London dressmaker!"
No doubt, Jessie, in describing her friend's powers, real or supposed, had laid the colours on rather thickly, and Miss Coxen had immediately proceeded to deepen them still further.