“To see me?” cried Patsy in alarm.
“Yourself, and no one else,” replied the cook.
“O Mrs Kinsella, what have I been doin’ at all, at all!” cried Patsy, so flurried out of his wits as not to be able to remember his sins. “Is it the thraps I’ve been settin’ in the wood?”
“You come along,” said Mrs Kinsella, who had washed her hands and rolled down her sleeves. “You come along, and you’ll soon see, only be sure, when she speaks to you, say ‘Yes, my lady,’ that’s all you need say; I’ll do the tellin’ and the talkin’. Wipe your boots on the mat here, and keep your mouth shut, and not hanging open like a rat-trap with a broken spring. Come here now till I brush your head, for you wouldn’t go before her ladyship with your hair standin’ up like the bristles on a broom.”
She brushed his hair with an old brush which one of the scullery maids fetched, and then she washed his face with soap, and rubbed it with a towel till it shone; Patsy, submitting without a word, for he was too terrified now to ask questions.
“Now come along,” said the cook, when she had made him fairly presentable. “And what are you to say when her ladyship speaks to you?”
“Yes, me lady,” replied Patsy promptly.
“That’s right, and don’t forget,” replied Mrs Kinsella; and, followed by Patsy, she left the kitchen.
Patsy, who had never been beyond the kitchen of the Big House before, followed his guide down a long stone passage, up a flight of steps, through a swing-door, then along a corridor from which they entered a great hall. Patsy had never seen anything like this, for the floor of the hall was of polished oak, shining like glass; a staircase, so broad that you might have driven a coach and horses up it, led from the hall to the first landing. Round the hall was a gallery, and under the gallery stood men in armour, looking very ghostly in the dim light.
They were only suits of armour, of course, but they were fixed so that it was impossible to tell whether there were men inside them or not.