“Emma Maddison is the name of the person I am expecting,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, who rolled her R’s in an inimitable fashion.
“A serious mistake has been made by somebody,” said Mrs. Plunket. “I am expecting a person of the name of Emma Maddison, who has been under-housemaid for ten months in the service of the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton.”
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, whose azure orbs were fixed upon the teapot.
Mrs. Plunket renewed her scrutiny of this extraordinary housemaid. The battered straw hat or inverted vegetable basket, which sagged at the brim in an almost immoral manner, the hooded cloak, the wicker basket with string attachment, and the unprecedented display of ankle, came again within her purview.
“This will never do,” she remarked in much the same fashion that the Right Honorable Lord Jeffrey reviewed Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Plunket, austerely. “Where have you come from?”
“My home is at Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, dissembling her pride in that fact in an uncommonly well-bred manner.
“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?”
“Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, who was already marveling in her slow-witted way at the consummate ignorance of London people, “is the next parish to Widdiford.”