“Bah!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, “that for you! What know you?” and she snapped her fingers.
“Pr’aps a deal more than some people thinks, and I don’t like to sit still and hear poor people sneered at because they are reduced to music.”
“But I don’t call that music,” said Robbins, contemptuously.
“Don’t you, Mr Robbins?—then I do.”
At this stage of the proceedings Dolly could bear her feelings no more, but got up and left the hall to ascend the back stairs to her own room, and sit down in a corner, and cover her face with her natty apron.
“Pore gell,” exclaimed the cook. “It’s too bad.”
“What is too bad, Madame Downes?” said Mademoiselle Framboise.
“To go on like that before the pore thing. She can’t help it.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the French maid, “it is disgust. An organ man! The child is affreusement stupide.”
“I have a heart of my own,” sighed the cook.