I soon found that the ample one did not require any reply other than the feeble nod, as it would have impeded her eloquence. She went on—
“I think, if you don’t mind, we won’t go upstairs till we’ve had some tea. We are absolutely prostrate, aren’t we, dear?” The flue-brush dipped slightly. “Could we have some tea at once?”
“Certainly,” I said with alacrity. I had already decided that tea was the only possible way to relieve the strain of the situation, and I rang the bell.
Abigail, after one comprehensive glance at the callers, fetched my very best afternoon tea-cloth, which she displayed on the table to the utmost advantage, that not an Irish inlet or a bit of lace border should be lost on the visitors. When she does not approve of any callers, or does not consider them quite in keeping with the family traditions, she invariably makes a terrific splash in front of them, getting out the special silver and the finest china, and serving with an air of withering superiority, as though she said, “Behold! this is how we live every day; very different from what you’ve been accustomed to!”
The tiresomeness of it is that when intimate friends call, who really matter, the handmaiden treats the tea-table most casually; they evidently don’t count if they are known to be above reproach!
From the look she gave the strangers, I knew we should have it all, and we did! She was wonderfully quick in getting both the tea and her smartest cap and apron. She put as much silver as she could squeeze on the table; she got out some egg-shell china plates for the bread and butter, and the old cut-glass for the preserves. She opened new jars of plum, black-currant, strawberry and raspberry jam; she turned out preserved ginger into a blue Chinese bowl; she put lemon-curd into a quaint brown dish, and honey in a lustre saucer. She hunted out all the cake we possessed, and opened a tin of apricots; she mashed up sardines with Worcester sauce, and heaped it on pale lettuce leaves, and she garnished some thin slices of ham most artistically with lemon and cucumber and flowering sprigs of rosemary. All this while the ample one was explaining to me how marvellously things were managed in London, the miles you could ride in a motor-bus for twopence, the cleanliness and speed and safety of the Tube, the ever-recurring convenience of a halfpenny in a tramcar, and the luxury of a taxi; and then more moans to think of the miles they had covered without meeting either motor-bus, Tube, tramcar or taxi.
When the table seemed on the very verge of breaking down with its abundance, and they had just drawn up their chairs, Abigail asked in clear tones that the visitors were bound to hear, “Would you wish me to bring in the cold duck, madam?” (“Madam” indicates company; “ma’am” is ordinary every-day.) I wasn’t exactly anxious to bestow my to-morrow’s dinner on the strangers, for I had reckoned to make the duck do for twice; but, of course, under the circumstances, I was bound to ask sweetly, “Oh, would you care for a little roast duck? It’s cold,” I added, by way of disqualifying the joint a little in their eyes. Fortunately they preferred ham, but it was satisfactory that at least they knew we had roast duck in the larder.
After sitting up and taking a little nourishment, the wilted ones revived perceptibly, and even began to be gracious. I am afraid I am not very fond of the graciousness of that type of woman; she does get it so mixed up with patronage. But I buoyed myself up with the thought that perchance I was entertaining angels unawares—though they didn’t look like it!
The ample one continued to be voluble. I did not interrupt her with questions, because I find it is usually as well to let a situation explain itself; it usually does in time. Besides, I didn’t quite know what to say. I couldn’t exactly ask, “Who are you? where have you come from? and why have you singled me out for this particular visitation?” Yet the longer I waited, the more awkward it became to open inquiries.