"She can't do any cooking with that hand," said Alwynne to Clare, more in decision than appeal, and Clare acquiescing, she fetched hat and coat, manipulated hatpins, and bundled the girl forth.
She returned to the kitchen to find Miss Hartill, skirts clutched high, eyeing the crowded table with distaste, and prodding with a toasting-fork at the half-prepared meal.
"Isn't it disgusting? How these people bleed! I can't stand a mess! Really, I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Durand for seeing to Bagot. I'm no good at that sort of thing. I hate touching people. You don't think it was a bad cut, though?"
"It must have hurt! She won't be able to use her hand for a day or two."
Clare rubbed her nose peevishly. She had a comical air of resenting the necessity for concerning herself with her own domestic arrangements.
"Well, what am I to do? And I loathe charwomen. She might at least have got lunch first!"
"The meat's cooked, anyhow," said Alwynne hopefully, drawing forth a congealing dishful.
Clare shivered.
"Take it away! It's all over Bagot."
"I don't think it is." Alwynne examined it cautiously.