“Why, of course,” said Miss Mary.
“But hadn’t you better leave your knife and your pertater, Miss Mary?”
“Oh, Sir Swire won’t mind those, Hannah; they’ll amuse him,” said the Bad Girl of the Family, who was half-way up the kitchen stairs already.
Mother upon the doorstep, in her new ermine tippet, was shocked not a little, deep down in the recesses of her nature. Still of course she was far too well found in the ways of the world to give her feelings publication. But if one is so ill-advised as to visit in Bohemian circles in the afternoon of the Sabbath Day, one must be prepared for all contingencies. Still, a half-pared potato, a sack-cloth apron, and a bone-hafted kitchen knife is a rather informal reception of a real peeress from Grosvenor Square on the part of Bedford Gardens.
“Mrs. Cathcart at home?” said Grosvenor Square, No. 88, the corner house, very bland and splendid.
“Oh, yes—won’t you come in?” said the Bad Girl winningly.
Impressive entrance of Governing Classes into an ill-lit but fairly spacious interior, which had a bust of Edward Bean over the hatstand, and John Peter Kendall as Richard II by—not after—Maclise over the dining-room door.
“Lady Shelmerdine,” said the bland and splendid one, as Mary pushed the front door to with her foot because her hands were occupied.
“Of Potterhanworth?” said the Bad Girl in tones warm and velvety.
“Oh, yes,” said the Governing Classes, pained, perhaps, a little.