DOWNSTAIRS, the little room that opened from the drawing-room was given to me by Mrs. Brane for my “office.” Here every morning Jane, Annie, and Delia came to me for orders.
It was a fortnight after my arrival, everything having run smoothly and uneventfully, when, earlier than usual, there came footsteps and a rap on the door of this room. My “Come in” served to admit all three old women, treading upon one another's heels. So odd and so ridiculous was their appearance that I had some ado to keep my laughter in my throat.
“Why,” said I, “what on earth's the matter?”
Jane's little, round, crumpled face puckered and blinked; Annie's stolid, square person was just a symbol of obstinate fear; Delia, long, lean, and stooping, with her knotted hand fingering her loose mouth, shuffled up to me. “We're givin' notice, ma'am,” she whined. Astonishment sent me back into my chair.
“Delia!”
Delia wavered physically, and her whitish-blue eyes watered, but the spirit of fear possessed her utterly.
“I can't help it, ma'am, I've been in this house me last night.”
“But it's impossible! Leave Mrs. Brane like this, with no notice, no time to get any one else? Why, only the other day she was saying, 'I don't see how I could get rid of them even if I wanted to.'”
I meant this to sting, and I succeeded. All three queer, old faces flushed.
Delia muttered, “Well, she's found the way, that's all.”