Miles. ’Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch the young woman in to you?
Joan. My maid, did you say? My maid?
Luke. Ah, depend on it, ’tis she.
Maggie. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes and a-calling of the geese and poultry.
Luke. That’s her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag.
Joan. [Agitatedly.] No, no—I mean—I want to see her particular—and alone. I’ll go to meet her. You—gentlemen—[Maggie goes slowly into the back kitchen.
Miles. [Placing a chair for Joan.] Delicate ladies should not venture out into the heat at this time of day.
Joan. [With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the window.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the garden. I have need of the services of my—my young woman. But when she has put me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to be good enough to come back and while away an hour for me in this sad place.
Miles. [Fervently.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss.
Luke. That’s right. Us’ll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet.