There was a sharp knock at the door, and into this room also the watchful Martha entered.
"Here's the Signal, sir. The boy's only just brought it."
"Give it to Miss Hilda," said Mr. Orgreave, without glancing up.
"Shall I take the tray away, 'm?" Martha inquired, looking towards the bed, the supreme centre of domestic order and authority.
"Perhaps Miss Hilda hasn't finished?"
"Oh yes, I have, thanks."
Martha rearranged the vessels and cutlery upon the tray, with quick, expert movements of the wrists. Her gaze was carefully fixed on the tray. Endowed though she was with rare privileges, as a faithful retainer, she would have been shocked and shamed had her gaze, improperly wandering, encountered the gaze of the master or the guest. Then she picked up the tray, and, pushing the small table into its accustomed place with a deft twist of the foot, she sailed erect and prim out of the room, and the door primly clicked on her neat-girded waist and flying white ribbons.
"And what am I to do with this Signal" Hilda asked, fingering the white, damp paper.
"I should like you to read us about the strike," said Mrs. Orgreave. "It's a dreadful thing."
"I should thing it was!" Hilda agreed fervently. "Oh! Do you know, on the way from Shawport, I saw a procession of the men, and anything more terrible--"