Here Mr Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the door.
“Come in,” said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if she had been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her appearance without the usual clean apron.
“If you please, sir,” said she, curtseying, “I will thank you to suit yourself with another cook.”
“Oh, very well,” replied Mr Witherington, angry at the interruption.
“And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day—indeed, sir, I shall not stay.”
“Go to the devil! if you please,” replied Mr Witherington, angrily; “but first go out and shut the door after you.”
The cook retired, and Mr Witherington was again alone.
“Confound the old woman—what a huff she is in! won’t cook for black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it.”
Here Mr Witherington was again interrupted by a second double tap at the door.
“Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.”