“Dennis Mudd! Dennis Mudd!” shrieked the parrot.
“There! that wicked nephew of mine taught him that. Roland Severn has no regard for the dignity of our family name and history, and Montague——”
“Piffle!” growled the parrot, still swinging upside down.
Secretly, Beth thought the parrot and the nephew were probably both right. But she, nevertheless, liked Mrs. Severn. The lady proceeded to show Beth that she approved of her at once.
“Now, I want your time each Saturday afternoon—oh, for some weeks. Until the end of this term, at least,” said the lady. “I have a number of table-throws and bureau scarfs and the like, made in the Irish convents, and the carelessness of my maid in putting them aside and having them laundered by people who did not know their business, has almost ruined some of the pieces. It is very particular work.”
“Perhaps I cannot suit you on such fine work, Mrs. Severn,” said Beth. “But I will try, if you like.”
“That is the right answer,” declared Mrs. Severn, gaily. “From what Mrs. Pepper showed me I know you will suit.”
“Thank you.”
“And you will give me each Saturday afternoon?”
“Yes—until supper time. We have to report at that hour unless we have a special permit from Miss Hammersly.”