She made no reply.
Amy lugged a Gladstone bag down the crooked stairs. A trunk was already close to the door; it had wrinkled the carpet and deranged the mat.
“You didn’t forget to put the hair-brush in, did you, Amy?” he asked.
“N—no, Mr. Cyril,” she blubbered.
“Amy!” Constance sharply corrected her, as Cyril ran upstairs, “I wonder you can’t control yourself better than that.”
Amy weakly apologized. Although treated almost as one of the family, she ought not to have forgotten that she was a servant. What right had she to weep over Cyril’s luggage? This question was put to her in Constance’s tone.
The cab came. Cyril tumbled downstairs with exaggerated carelessness, and with exaggerated carelessness he joked at the cabman.
“Now, mother!” he cried, when the luggage was stowed. “Do you want me to miss this train?” But he knew that the margin of time was ample. It was his fun!
“Nay, I can’t be hurried!” she said, fixing her bonnet. “Amy, as soon as we are gone you can clear this table.”
She climbed heavily into the cab.