“You brought it up?”
“No, my lady—Joseph.”
“Then Joseph knew.”
“He said it was cases of modelling clay, my lady.”
“That’s right,” said Tom, “modelling clay. Try a glass, mamma, to moisten yours.”
“Take away that case.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Robbins stooped with difficulty, picked up the case, and slowly bore it out, her ladyship standing in a studied attitude pointing the while.
“Another time,” said her ladyship, turning tragically to her son, and then withering her lord. “I have too much on my mind at present to trouble about this domestic mutiny.”
“Domestic grandmother,” cried Tom. “There, you needn’t make so much fuss about it. It was all your fault, mamma.”