“What is the matter, child?” said I.
“Mother Ismania bade me scrub the boards,” said she.
“Well! wherefore no?”
Denise fell a-sobbing yet more. For a minute or two might I not come at the reason: but at the last I did—she was a kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and thought it so degrading to be set to scrub boards!
“Why, dear heart,” said I, “we all do work of this fashion.”
“Oh yes, common Sisters may,” quoth she.
“Well,” said I, “we cannot be all uncommon. I ensure thee, Denise, there are here many daughters of better houses than thine. Mother Ismania herself is daughter of an offshoot of the Percys, and Sister Isabel is a Neville by her mother. My Lady is a Fitzhugh of Ravenswath.”
“Well, Sisters!” came from behind us in my Lady’s most sarcastic voice, “you choose a nice time for comparing your pedigrees. Maybe it were as well to leave that interesting amusement for recreation-time, and scrub the corridor just now.”
Sister Denise melted again into tears, and I turned to explain.
“Your pail looks pretty full, Sister,” said my Lady grimly: “much more water will make it overflow.”