In the meantime Lady Woodhouse has been hearing all the news from Doris and Honor, the former of whom is seated on a footstool at her aunt's feet, her chin resting in her hands, and with a generally doleful sort of air about her.
"No, it's no use, aunt," she is saying. "I hate domesticating, and that's all about it. I've tried my hand at everything pretty nearly, and I think each has failed in an equally successful manner. A beef-steak pudding is a thing to be spoken of with bated breath in this house, ever since I made one, not long after we settled here. I believe the whole family suffered from violent indigestion for a week and more; and now if it is proposed to have a pudding for dinner, someone—generally Dick or Molly—inquires in a most pointed manner, 'Who's going to make it?' I tried a treacle pudding one day, when they had well recovered from the other; but I was so flurried with thinking how in the world I should prevent the treacle from running out at the ends that I forgot the lard altogether; so no one suffered from the richness of the paste that day, because it was simply flour and water. It doesn't seem to matter what it is," poor Doris goes on after a pause; "I even failed in boiling some potatoes the other day, for the water all boiled away (I suppose I didn't put enough), and I found the potatoes all stuck to the bottom of the pot, and burnt horribly! And it's just the same in other things. If I feed the chickens in the evening one of them is sure to be found either dead or dying the next morning. The very milk goes sour if I by chance put it away!"
"Hum—that's because you don't put it in the right place, I suspect," remarks Aunt Sophia grimly.
"Very likely; but that doesn't alter the fact that it does go sour, and that everything I have to do with is bound to go wrong in some way or other. Now, aunt, do take off your bonnet!"
"I tell you I'm not going to, child," says Lady Woodhouse, holding on to it with both hands. "You know very well that until my trunk is unpacked I cannot get a cap, and sit bareheaded I will not. But if you are so very anxious upon the subject you can take my keys and go and find one."
Molly, who has just entered, volunteers to do this, and after this little interruption Lady Woodhouse says abruptly:
"Well then, Miss Doris, I take it that you are not of very much use in this establishment, eh?"
"No, I am afraid not," answers Doris, looking rather crestfallen. "The only thing I can do decently is needlework, and I am of use in that sometimes. Am I not, Honor?"
"You are lots of use in all sorts of ways, Doris; only you allow yourself to be so easily discouraged. But she does do plain needlework beautifully, aunt; and, oh, there has been such a lot of mending and darning to do in the house linen since we came here. We only brought what was very old. The best was all included in the sale."
"I don't believe it need have been," grumbles Doris in an undertone; "but you know, aunt, Honor became quite aggressively conscientious by the time we were actually leaving. I declare I wonder she allowed us to keep our own hair!"