“What!” squealed Bridget, staggering back in astonishment.
He remembered Phoebe.
“You’d better run over to the Butlers’, Phoebe, and have lunch,” he said, his voice trembling in spite of himself. “Run along lively now.”
Bridget was still staring at him like one bereft of her senses when Phoebe scrambled down from her chair and raced out of the room. He turned upon the cook.
“What do you mean by coming in here and speaking to me in that manner?” he demanded, shrilly. 26
“Great God above!” gasped Bridget weakly. She dropped her glove. Her eyes were blinking.
“And why weren’t you here to get lunch?” he continued, ruthlessly. “What do we pay you for?”
Bridget forgot her animosity toward Annie. “What do yez think o’ that?” she muttered, addressing the nursemaid.
“Get back to the kitchen,” ordered he.
Cook had recovered herself by this time. Her broad face lost its stare and a deep scowl, with fiery red background, spread over her features. She imposed her huge figure a step or two farther into the room.