“What is the matter? Rose—is that you, Rose? Disgraceful! If you've broken any of the china it will come out of your wages, and it's no use crying about it. The breakages in this house—”
“Oh, madam!” gulped Mary. “Oh, madam, it's the Master!”
The door next to Miss Matthews' opened. Stella stood yawning on the threshold in peach silk pyjamas, and with her short hair ruffled up like a halo about her face. “What on earth's all the row about?” she inquired fretfully.
“Stella! Your dressing-gown!” exclaimed her aunt.
“I'm all right. Oh, do shut up, Rose! What is it?”
Both maids were now sobbing gustily. Beecher said: “It's the Master, miss. He's dead.”
Miss Matthews gave a shriek, but Stella, staring at Beecher for a moment, said: “Rot! I don't believe it.”
“It's true, miss. He's — he's cold.”
Somehow that seemed funny. Stella gave an uncertain giggle.
Her aunt said: “How you can stand there and laugh —! I'm sure I don't understand you modern girls, and what is more I don't want to. Not that I believe a word of it. I shall go and see for myself. Where are my glasses? Mary! my glasses!”