“Impertinent chit!” said Bet.
“Chit yourself,” said Elfrida.
Then she laughed.
“Come, Cousin Bet,” she said, “your uncle’s away and you’re grown up. I’ll tell you what to do. You just be wise and splendid, so that your portrait’ll be in the illustrated Christmas numbers in white satin and an anxious expression. ‘The saviour of her King’—that’s what it’ll say.”
“Don’t wander in your speech, child,” said Cousin Bet, pressing her hand to her brow, “I’ve enough to distract me without that. And if you desire to ask my pardon, do so.”
“Oh, well, I beg your pardon—there!” said Elfrida, with extreme irritation. “Now perhaps you’ll give your King something to eat.”
“Climb into that hole—with a tray? And the servants, perhaps, coming in any minute? What would you say to them if they did?”
“All right, then, I’ll go,” said Elfrida, only too glad of the chance.
Bet touched the secret spring, and when Elfrida had climbed into the dark hole—which she did quite easily—handed her the supper-tray.
“Oh, bother,” said Elfrida, setting it down at her feet with great promptness. “It’s too heavy. He’ll have to come down and fetch it. Give me a candle and shut the panel, and tell me which way to go.”