“No, ma’am,” said Ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; “no, ma’am, but there were no such orchids in those days.”
“Ah, no! That’s forty years ago, James Ellis. Well, what is it this morning?”
“About the big oak, ma’am. It is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. Of course, it’s a bad time of year, but I thought if it was cut down now, I might—”
“Don’t! Never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, James Ellis,” cried his mistress angrily.
The bailiff made a deprecating sign.
“Let them stand till they die. Tell Barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. No more cutting down dead boughs while I live.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Is that all?”
“No, ma’am; about the hay. Mr Nixon would be glad to have it at the market price.”
“Of course, let Mr Nixon have all you can spare. And now I’m very busy, James Ellis—by the way, how is your wife, and how is Mary?”