At the head of the kitchen stairs stood Molly and the kitchenmaid.
“Will I run for the police?” said the kitchenmaid. “Sure I wouldn’t be afeard to do it if Molly would come with me.”
“You’ll run down to the scullery,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and you’ll go on washing them potatoes, and Molly along with you. That’s all the running either the one or the other of you will do this day.”
“Her ladyship’s bell is ringing,” said Molly. “Will I not go to her? It could be she’s not dead yet and might be wanting help.”
“It’s little help you’d give her if she was wanting it, you with your cap on your ear, instead of the top of your head, and your apron like a wrung dishclout I wonder you’re not ashamed to be seen. Get along with you down to the kitchen and stay there. Anything that’s wanted for her ladyship I’ll do myself.”
Lady Devereux was in her morning room, a pleasant sunny apartment which looked out on the square. The day was warm, but Lady Devereux was an old woman. She sat in front of a bright fire. She sat in a very deep soft chair with her feet on a footstool. She had a pile of papers and magazines on a little table beside her. She neither stirred nor looked up when Mrs. O’Halloran entered the room.
“Molly,” she said, “I heard some men talking in the hall. I wish they wouldn’t make so much noise.”
Mrs. O’Halloran cleared her throat and coughed. Lady Devereux looked up.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s not Molly. It’s you, Mrs. O’Halloran. Then I suppose it must be plumbers.”
The inference was a natural one. Mrs. O’Halloran always dealt with plumbers when they came. She was the only person in the house who could deal with plumbers.