“He’s very close,” said the stranger.
“A deal closer than Mr. Harry,” acquiesced Mildred.
“Not like you and me, Mrs. Tarnley, that can’t keep a secret—never. That tell truth, and shame the devil. I, because I don’t care a snap of my fingers for you, or him, or the Archbishop of Canterbury; and you, because you’re all for grace and repentance. How am I looking to-night—tired?”
“Tired, to be sure; you ought to be in your bed, ma’am, an hour ago; you’re as white as that plate, ma’am.”
“White are they?—so they used to be long ago,” said the visitor.
“The same set, ma’am. ’Twas a long set in my mother’s time, though ’tis little better than a short set now; but I don’t think there’s more than three plates, and the cracked butter-boat, that had a stitch in it. You’ll mind, although ye may ’a forgot, for I usen’t to send it up to table—only them three, and the butter-boat broke since; and that butter-boat, ’twouldn’t a brought three ha’pence by auction, and ’twas that little slut downstairs, that doesn’t never do nothing right, that knocked it off the shelf, with her smashing.”
“And I’m not looking well to-night?” said this pallid woman.
“You’d be the better of a little blood to your cheeks; you’re as white as paper, ma’am,” answered Mildred.
“I never have any colour now, they tell me—always pale, pale, pale; but it isn’t muddy; ’taint what you call putty?”
“Well, no.”