It was noon by the time Alistair got down to the breakfast-table, and he sat picking at some tough, half-cold kidneys, and grumbling to Molly, who was in a dressing-gown pouring out his coffee.
“These things are not fit to eat,” he complained crossly, pushing away his plate.
Molly reminded him that the cook was under notice to leave.
“Our servants generally are,” he retorted. “But we don’t seem to get any better ones in their place.”
“I know I am a bad housekeeper,” was the meek response. Complaints of this kind on Alistair’s part were a new symptom, and Molly was frightened by it. “Good servants expect such high wages nowadays,” she added.
“They expect their wages to be paid regularly, you mean. No wonder they won’t do their work properly when they don’t get paid for it.”
“We have no money.”
Alistair coloured up as he was again recalled to his position.
“Well, we can’t get any now, at all events,” he said. “I don’t suppose Trent will be such a cad as to stop my allowance, but the next cheque won’t be due till Christmas, and we can’t very well borrow any more. What about Carter’s?”
Carter’s was the establishment from which they were accustomed to get their household supplies, one of those huge bazaars which deal in everything from a landed estate to a packet of pins.