“Yes, ma’am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?”
“You had better ask your master,” is the reply. The tone is suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, but what are you to do?
“Yes, yes, show her up,” you say, and the girl goes out, closing the door.
Your wife gathers her work together, and rises.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
“To sleep with the children,” is the frigid answer.
“It will look so rude,” you urge. “We must be civil to the poor thing; and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always haunted it.”
“It is very curious,” returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily, “that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes when you are in town I’m sure I don’t know.”
This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation.
“What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth,” you reply; “I am only barely polite to her.”