“I—I did not do anything to it, ma’am,” faltered the woman, whose face was now ghastly.
“Someone did, and it melted down into the tea. It tastes horrible. Take the pot, and wash it out I must make some fresh.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the woman eagerly, glancing from the tea-pot to her and back again. “You had better make some fresh, of course.”
She uttered a sigh, as if relieved, but Kate saw that her hands trembled as she took up the pot.
“There, be quick. I shall not complain to Mr Garstang, and get you another scolding.”
“Thank you, ma’am—no ma’am,” said the woman faintly, and she glanced behind her toward the door, and then caught at the table to support herself.
“What is the matter? Are you unwell?” asked Kate.
“N-no, ma’am—a little faint and giddy, that’s all,” she faltered. “I—am gettin’ better now—it’s going off.”
“You are ill?” said Kate kindly. “Never mind the tea. I will go to the cellaret and get you a little brandy. There, sit down for a few moments. Yes, sit down; your face is covered with cold perspiration. Are you in the habit of turning like this?”
The woman did not answer, but sat back in the chair into which she had been pressed, moaning slightly, and wringing her hands.