“Good-mornin’, Mrs. Mearely, ma’am.”
“Good-morning, Amanda. Good-morning, Jemima.”
These salutations never varied. Rosamond spread her old-fashioned damask napkin on her lap slowly with a sense of apprehension. Amanda had her own manner of establishing an “atmosphere.” Out of the corner of her eye Rosamond perceived that she was more unbending than usual this morning.
“I was a’most a-comin’ up to see if you’d ben took sick—it’s five after.” Amanda’s tone was dry and accusative.
“Is it? Perhaps I may have dawdled a little ... I mean,” hastily, “I think one of my laces knotted.”
“Seven sharp was a’ways Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s breakfast hour”—Jemima’s tone was impersonal and final—“as we’d oughter know that cooked and served it to him twenty year, not countin’ the long time of his young an middle manhood when he was trapsein’ the world after them curios an’ antics of his’n.”
“Antiques, Jemima,” the lady of the house corrected.
“That’s wot I said,” stubbornly.
“Your porridge was dished at seven sharp an’ was perfec’ for that hour; but five minutes makes a world of difference in the nature of a hot bowl of porridge.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious, Amanda,” her mistress murmured. Her tone was timid and placating.