“Papa thinks he would like a little supper, Maria, as we dined early to-day. Bring up a tray. There is a cold chicken, I think!”
“Yes, ’m,” said Maria, and disappeared, but was back in a few minutes.
“If you please, ’m, Mrs Millett says there is no cold chicken, ’m.”
“Indeed?” said Helen wonderingly. “Very well, then, the cold veal pie.”
“Yes, ’m.”
Maria disappeared, and came back again. “Please, ’m, Mrs Millett says there is no veal pie.”
“Then tell her to make an omelette.”
“Yes, ’m.” Maria left the room and came back. “Please, ’m, Mrs Millett says there’s no eggs, and it’s too late to get any more.”
“Ask Mrs Millett to come here,” said Helen; and the old lady came up, looking very red.
“Why, Millett,” said Helen, “this is very strange. I don’t like to find fault, but surely there ought to have been a chicken left.”