“Why, Phoebe, here’s your wool—a whole ball!”
“Pretty kettle of fish!” screamed the parrot.
Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, the servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting the candles.
“Well, my dear,” asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, “is your decision taken?”
“It is, Madam,” readily answered her niece.
“So much the better. What is it, my dear?”
“I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam.”
“You would!” Mrs Latrobe’s tone showed surprise. “Very well: I promised you your choice. As lady’s woman, I suppose?”
“If you please, Madam.”
“Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I will begin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in a week or two.”