Honor. How will I know, Miss Bloomsbury, when it will be twelve o’clock?
Bloom. You’ll hear the clock strike: but I suspect you’se don’t understand the clock yet—well, you’ll hear the workmen’s bell.
Honor. I know, ma’am, oh, I know, true—only I was flurried, so I forgot.
Bloom. Flurried! but never be flurried. Now mind and keep your head upon your shoulders, while I tell you all your duty—you’ll just ready this here room, your lady’s dressing-room; not a partical of dust let me never find, petticlarly behind the vindor shuts.
Honor. Vindor shuts!—where, ma’am?
Bloom. The shuts of the vindors—did you never hear of a vindor, child?
Honor. Never, ma’am.
Bloom. (pointing to a window) Don’t tell me! why, your head is a wool-gathering! Now, mind me, pray—see here, always you put that there,—and this here, and that upon that,—and this upon this, and this under that,—and that under this—you can remember that much, child, I supposes?
Honor. I’ll do my endeavour, ma’am, to remember all.
Bloom. But mind, now, my good girl, you takes petticlar care of this here pyramint of japanned china—and very petticlar care of that there great joss—and the very most petticularest care of this here right reverend Mandolin. (Pointing to, and touching a Mandarin, so as to make it shake. HONOR starts back.)