“Yes, this minute.”
“The milkman’ll be here again in ’alf an hour, mum.”
Catherine flushed with anger.
“Are you going to go to Brigson’s or not?”
Florrie raised her eyebrows self-questioningly.
“S’powsing I waster say not, mum?” she said impudently.
The retort stung Catherine to feverish decision.
“You can either go to Brigson’s or take a week’s notice,” she cried shrilly, and let go the elbow that supported her head. Her red hair straggled across the pillow, half hiding her face and effectively preventing Florrie from seeing that she was weeping. Florrie was not hard-hearted, and if she had seen her mistress’s tears she would probably have apologized. But she did not see them: she saw only the red flush on her cheeks and the angry glint in her eyes. She saw that it was a direct contest of wills, and also, which perhaps was the deciding factor, she did not wish to leave Upton Rising and her tram conductor. So she left the room sullenly, put on her hat in front of the dining-room overmantel downstairs, and took the path through the snow towards the High Road.
And meanwhile Catherine lay weeping upstairs.... Florrie’s open defiance seemed one more link in the chain of evidence that proved her to be unworthy of respect, devotion or love. Even Florrie despised her: Florrie, with her mule-like doggedness and inferior intellect, judged herself competent to query her mistress’s orders, and treat her with what was very thinly veiled contempt....
The morning paper was on the breakfast tray, and she raised herself again and glanced at the headlines. Then she turned to the inside page where the musical criticisms and announcements, if any, were inserted. Under the heading, “New Year’s Concert,” she read: