“So much the more suitable,” said the indomitable Mr. Smith decisively.
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m going downstairs, Uncle, to give Felix Menebees a hand with the silver. He does work, that boy.”
“No boy who didn’t work would remain in my service,” said Uncle Alfred simply, and, as Rose knew, quite truly.
They went downstairs, the old man to confer with Artie Millar in the private pledge-office at the back of the shop, and Rose to put on an apron, an old pair of gloves, and join Felix at his apparently endless task of cleaning the stock of silver, plate, and brass.
She reflected joyously, as she took her place on a cane-bottomed chair and smiled at the pallid Felix, astride a wooden stool:
“This is better than hanging about the hall at Squires, hearing Pug snorting, and waiting for the next meal.”
“Chuck me over some of that stuff, Felix, will you? My, what a lot you’ve done! I was late down, this morning.”
“I could always manage, Mrs. Aviolet,” the boy said shyly. “It’s very good of you to do this, but there isn’t any need. The windows take a lot of time, of course, but if I allow two hours for them and the supports, it’s as much as I want. And then there’s practically all the rest of the day for cleaning the stuff.”
“You do lots of other things as well, Felix—fetching the milk, for one.”