Mrs. Korner was the type of young lady fond of domineering with a not un-graceful hauteur over those accustomed to yield readily to her; it is a type that is easily frightened.
“I wan' grilled kinneys-on-toast,” explained Mr. Korner, exchanging the knocker for the hat-stand, and wishing the next moment that he had not. “Don' let's 'avareytalk about it. Unnerstan'? I dowan' any talk about it.”
“What on earth am I to do?” whispered the terrified Mrs. Korner to her bosom friend, “there isn't a kidney in the house.”
“I should poach him a couple of eggs,” suggested the helpful bosom friend; “put plenty of Cayenne pepper on them. Very likely he won't remember.”
Mr. Korner allowed himself to be persuaded into the dining-room, which was also the breakfast parlour and the library. The two ladies, joined by the hastily clad staff, whose chronic indignation seemed to have vanished in face of the first excuse for it that Acacia Villa had afforded her, made haste to light the kitchen fire.
“I should never have believed it,” whispered the white-faced Mrs. Korner, “never.”
“Makes yer know there's a man about the 'ouse, don't it?” chirped the delighted staff. Mrs. Korner, for answer, boxed the girl's ears; it relieved her feelings to a slight extent.
The staff retained its equanimity, but the operations of Mrs. Korner and her bosom friend were retarded rather than assisted by the voice of Mr. Korner, heard every quarter of a minute, roaring out fresh directions.
“I dare not go in alone,” said Mrs. Korner, when all things were in order on the tray. So the bosom friend followed her, and the staff brought up the rear.
“What's this?” frowned Mr. Korner. “I told you chops.”