"That's something like!" he said. "Them eggs ain't ready yet!"
"They're boiled," said his wife; and she brought them.
"There! I told you so!" Plunkett gave a sharp tap with his spoon, and thin liquid spurted from the crack. "'Tain't begun to be cooked. Here, Marigold—you know how! Put 'em in again, and boil 'em properly. Not you, Jane! Marigold!"
Plunkett raised his voice, and his wife retreated. Marigold did not wish to show any triumph, but perhaps she looked rather too well pleased, as was natural, though not wise. She covered the crack with salt, brought the water to boiling pitch, and dropped the eggs lightly in. This time the venture was successful.
"I've been having a talk with Mrs. Heavitree," said Plunkett, taking a gulp of tea.
"What about, father?"
"About Narcissus. Mrs. Heavitree wants to have her for a year—now. Not to put off no longer. She said she thought Narcissus was turned sixteen, and I said, yes, she was. So then she said, now was the time. The nursery girl is leaving next week, and Mrs. Heavitree thinks that 'ud suit Narcissus better than house-work. And I've promised she shall go."
"Rubbish!" said Mrs. Plunkett.
"May be, or mayn't be. That's neither here nor there. Anyway, I've given my word. I promised the girls' mother I'd let 'em go, each in turn, and I'm not a-going to draw back from that for nothing nor nobody. And I've promised Mrs. Heavitree, too."
"She's not going, though."