“GO, TELL MRS. STONE SHE ISN’T UP TO SNUFF.”
But my lady was having altogether too good a time to end her frolic so soon, while the audience upon the stairs were nearly dying from their efforts not to scream. So, without changing that dreadful stare which she had maintained throughout her performance, she said, as though repeating Mrs. Stone’s own words:
“Come back—come back—come back, my Bonny, to me,” and turned to leave the pantry. She had barely gotten outside the door, however, when she paused, and, muttering something about lemons and pickles, slipped away from Mrs. Stone’s grasp and disappeared within the pantry again.
Trembling with excitement, Mrs. Stone stood for one instant, and then saying, “Miss Preston must be called, Miss Preston must be called,” turned and literally flew up the stairs, for once too lost to everything but the matter in hand to be aware of anything else, which was certainly fortunate for the white-robed figures, which nearly fell over each other in their scramble to escape.