I hear Amelia's footsteps. She enters the room and tells me I must get up. It is useless asking her to permit me to have "a little slumber, a little sleep, a little folding of the hands to sleep," for she tells me that it is dining-room day, which means that she must clean it, and cannot waste any more time on an idle, troublesome girl.
I ask her if I may lie in Nature's own garments under the apple tree, with just a soft, silken coverlet thrown over me; and she is scandalised, and says most probably Mr. Brook, the vicar, or Mrs. Cobbold may call.
"Amelia," I say, "I am tired of your threatening me with Mr. Brook. We have lived here for six months, and he does not seem to be dreaming of calling upon us. As for Mrs. Cobbold—well, she will never call again."
"Mr. Brook has been ill," she argues.
"Mrs. Brook might have called."
"She has been too busy nursing him."
"Poor woman! She must be quite glad of an excuse, then, not to call," I said. "I have the truest sympathy for clergymen's wives, always going to see stupid parishioners because it is considered their duty. I only hope she will not call."
"We never use the best china," said Amelia sadly.
"Use it while mother is here," I said cheeringly; "it will be a good opportunity."
She shook her head.