"It's not enough," I cried sharply.
"I've boiled 'undreds of 'em—Skerry blues, magnums, queen of them all, Cheshires—none of 'em takes more than half an hour."
I closed my eyes and clung to the tortoise. "Oh, when would Dimbie come?" I moaned to myself. I lay thus for some minutes. It seemed ridiculous, absurd to be frightened of a mere Help. I told myself this over and over again. At length I ventured to open one eye. I longed to know if the Help were still staring at me. She was, and I shut it again quickly. What was I to do? When would the wedding be over? I opened my eye again. The Help was staring harder than ever. Most wickedly I wished that she could be struck dead by lightning. But it was unlikely, the day was brilliantly fine and sunny. Now I put a handkerchief over my eyes. I would not look at the Help. The gate banged. I heard Dimbie's step, and he came into the room, but I dare not remove the handkerchief.
"What is it?" he cried anxiously. "Are you poorly, Marguerite?"
"Come here," I said.
He stooped down.
"Is the Help still staring?" I whispered.
"Yes."
"Can you get her out of the room?"
He began to laugh.