“Did you like him, Mrs Dorothy?”
Phoebe looked up, when no answer came. The expression of Mrs Dorothy’s face was a curious mixture of fear, repulsion, and yet amusement.
“No!” she said at length.
“Why not?” demanded Rhoda.
“Well, there were some that did,” was the reply, in a rather constrained tone; “and the one that he behaved the worst to loved him the best of all.”
“How droll!” said Rhoda. “And who were your friends, then, Mrs Dorothy?”
“That depends, my dear, on what you mean by friends. If you mean them that flattered me, and joked with me, and the like,—why, I had very many; or if you mean them that would take some trouble to push me in the world,—well, there were several of those; but if you mean such as are only true friends, that would have cast one thought to my real welfare, whether I should go to Heaven or Hell,—I had but one of that sort.”
“And who was your one friend, Mrs Dolly?” asked Rhoda, pursing up her lips a little.
“The King’s Scots cook, my dear,” quietly replied Mrs Dorothy.
“The what?” shrieked Rhoda, going into convulsions of laughter.