Mrs. Plunket, indisputable sovereign of the nether regions, was taking tea. Mr. Marchbanks greeted her with an air of private wrong.
“A young person, ma’am, is arrived,” said he.
“The new under-housemaid is not due until six o’clock,” said Mrs. Plunket. “She has no right to come before her time.”
“I am almost afraid, ma’am,” said Mr. Marchbanks, with diplomatic reserve, “that this is her first place.”
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Plunket. “She has been ten months in the service of the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton.”
“Then, I fear,” said Mr. Marchbanks, gravely, “that she has not profited by her experience.”
“Indeed, Mr. Marchbanks!” said Mrs. Plunket.
“She rang the front-door bell,” said Mr. Marchbanks.
“That is unpardonable,” said Mrs. Plunket. “Yet the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton is generally considered very good service.”
“Things are very unsettled, ma’am, in these days,” said Mr. Marchbanks, gloomily. “It seems sometimes that even good service is a thing of the past. If we must have Radical Governments and we must have higher education of the masses, there is no saying where we shall get to. She—ah, she attempted to shake hands with me!”