"That will do for to-day," he snapped. "You can leave as soon as your legs will carry you."
"But there's th' kitchen not fettled up yet, an' th' bedroom——" began the woman.
"Well, they must wait till to-morrow. I can't stand your clatter, clatter, clatter, upstairs and down. Heaven knows why it allowed man to hit on the notion of clogs!"
Mrs. Whitaker was not insensible to fear of her master's black moods; but it shocked her sense of decency that the domestic rites should go unperformed.
"Axing your pardon, sir, what'll you do for th' Kirsmas dinner? There's th' turkey to be roasted, an' th' sauce to be made, an' th' plum pudding——"
"Confound the lot of them! I shall dine off cheese and bread. Good day, Mrs. Whitaker."
The woman made off with what speed she could muster, realizing that Roddick was not all a God-fearing man should be, yet inclined—in the light of the golden sovereign clutched in her withered palm—to make allowance for the most sinful of masters on the blessed Christmas Day.
Roddick finished his breakfast, and pulled round his chair to the fire.
"Humph!" growled he, lighting his pipe. "Now we'll salute the happy morn, and be as jolly as we're bound to be. What a rum sort of place the world is!"