“No, Florence Whittaker, I did not. I am much more likely to cry. I have a regard for your father, but there have been too many practical jokes in your family. It is your brother Harry over again, and I could not—could not continue to employ you if that kind of spirit is to be displayed.”
“There’s other occupations,” said Florrie. “I ain’t so fond of fancy work.”
“Oh, Florrie, don’t be such a silly girl,” said Miss Lee. “Ask mother’s pardon, and have done with it. Then maybe she’ll overlook it this time, as you’ve never done such a thing before.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done now,” said Florrie. “I only showed the articles to a customer.”
Mrs Lee looked at her. If she had appeared tearful or sulky she would have sent her away to think the matter over. But Florrie looked quite cool, and as if she rather enjoyed the situation.
“Well,” said Mrs Lee, “I must speak to your father.”
“I don’t care if you do,” said Florence.
“Then, Florence Whittaker, I shall,” said Mrs Lee with severe emphasis. “Go back now and attend to your business.”
Florence revenged herself by doing nothing but what she was told.
“Why didn’t you show the Berlin wools to that lady?”