“That’s what you always say when you’re late. You don’t know, Master Don, what a life he leads me.”
“’Tain’t true, Master Don,” cried Jem. “She’s always a-wherritting me.”
“Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There’s the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s’rimps. It arn’t your fault, sir, I know, and I’m not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies.”
“It’s the sugar, Sally,” said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home.
“Yes, it’s the sugar, sir, I know; and you’d think it would sweeten some people’s temper, but it don’t.”
“Which if it’s me you mean, and you’re thinking of this morning—”
“Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg’larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button.”
“Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man’s married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts.”
“Yes, and badly enough you want ’em, making ’em that sticky as you do.”
“I can’t help that; it’s only sugar.”