“Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie to come to the dining-room directly.”
“What for, Markes?” cried Clotilde, pausing in the middle of a rich-toned run full of delicious melody.
“Come and see. There, I’ll tell you—may as well, I suppose. Dressmaker to measure you for some new frocks.”
“La—ra—ra—ra—ra—ra—ra—rah!” sang Clotilde in a powerful crescendo, as she swung round upon the music-stool and then leaped up, while Marie rose slowly, with a quiet, natural grace.
“Am—am I to come, too?” said Ruth.
“You? No. It’s them,” said Markes grimly. “Fine goings on, ’pon my word.”
“What are fine goings on, Markes?” cried Clotilde.
“Why, ordering new dresses. Better buy a new carpet for one of the bedrooms, and spend a little more money on the living. I’m getting sick of the pinching and griping ways.”
“I say, Markes, what’s for dinner to-day?” exclaimed Marie, on finding the woman in a more communicative mood than usual.
“Cold boiled mutton.”