Emily. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I’d like to know?
[George gets hastily off. Both children look up from their book.
Emily. [Looking freezingly at Clara.] ’Tis plain as a turnpike what you’ve been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck and crop as you should be thrown from the door.
Clara. What for, mistress?
Emily. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I’ll soon tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him and scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen.
George. This be going a bit too far, missis. I’ll not have things said like that.
Emily. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took from—a grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n what you eats nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great hulk.
Clara. [Springing up angrily.] O I’ll not hear such things said. I’ll not.
Emily. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress out of bed—and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on to her face. ’Tis about all you be fit for.
Clara. [Angrily going to the stair door.] Very well. ’Tis best that I should go. I might say something you would not like.