“I would advise your eating something,” replied Mildred.
“But what?”
“There’s very little; there’s eggs quite new, there’s a bit o’ bacon, and there’s about half a cold chicken—roast, and there’s a corner o’ Cheddar cheese, and there’s butter, and there’s bread—’taint much,” answered Mrs. Tarnley, glibly.
“The chicken will do very nicely, and don’t forget bread and salt, Mrs. Tarnley, and a glass of beer.”
“Yes ’m.”
Mrs. Tarnley poked the fire and looked about her, and then took the only candle, marched boldly off with it, shutting the door.
Toward the door the lady turned her face and listened. She heard old Mildred’s step receding.
This tall woman was not pleasant to look at. Her large features were pitted with the small-pox and deadly pale with the pallor of anger, and an unpleasant smile lighted up the whiteness of her face.
“Patience, patience,” she repeated, “what a d——d trick! no matter, wait a little.”
She did wait a little in silence, screwing her lips and knitting her brows, and then a new resource struck her, and she groped in her bag and drew forth a bottle, which she applied to her lips more than once, and seemed better. It was no febrifuge nor opiate; but though the flicker of the fire showed no flush on her pallid features, the odour declared it brandy.