“Do you owe the woman any wages?” Stuart asked, as soon as she was gone. He knew by experience that it was useless to interfere in these periodical scenes between Molly and her household.
“Not a farthing,” Molly protested. “And I’ve always treated her kindly, too. I can’t think what makes her presume like that.”
The cook went down fuming and snorting into the kitchen, and gave the explanation to her sympathizing sisters.
“I’ll teach her to send haughty messages out to me, and me a respectable woman whose father had a farm, and six men under him; and her out of the gutter, and no better than a street-walker, if you come to that, though she do ride in her carriage, and wear as many jewels as a Martinet.”
“You mean a Marchioness, don’t you, Eleanor?” inquired the housemaid, who had moved in higher spheres.
“I mean a lady, that’s what I mean,” said the cook, with grim emphasis. “Consequently I don’t mean Miss Finucane, as she calls herself, though her real name’s Finigan, and she’s low Irish down to her boot-soles.” She took a long breath, and concluded: “And so I’d have told her to her face if his lordship hadn’t been there; but he’s a gentleman, when all’s said and done, and I’m sorry for him.”
The cook spoke for her sex. Most women were sorry for Lord Alistair Stuart.
When Molly saw Alistair rise from the table immediately after the cook’s stormy exit, her face fell.
“You’re not going out again?” she protested.
“I’ve got to,” was the answer.