"Oh, no," I said hastily, "I am sure you are not, Amelia."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what I do, so as you won't be wonderin' why I'm not dressed by half-past two." She spoke volubly. "I washes up the lunch things—nurse's now as well; she's too grand to so much as put a kettle on. Then I sweeps up the kitchen, sides up the hearth, brushes the kettle, cleans the handle——"
"What do you do that for?" I asked with interest.
"For fun, of course."
"Amelia!" I said rebukingly.
"Beggin' your pardon, mum, but it seemed such a foolish question—meanin' no offence to you. I cleans the handle, which is copper here—it was brass at Tompkinses'—to get the dirt and smoke off. You never got your hands black in lifting my kettle, did you now?"
"I don't think I have ever lifted it," I rejoined.
"Oh, well," she said in a superior way, "of course you can't know; but people who knows anything at all about a house knows that generals' kettles are mostly black. Then I scrubs the table, dusts the kitchen, feeds the canary, and waters the geranium, which is looking that sickly-like I'm ashamed of the tradespeople seeing it. The butcher only says to me yesterday, 'I see you are a bit of a horticulturist, miss.'"
She stopped, breathless.
"You certainly are very busy," I said.