She led the way into what had evidently once been the butler’s pantry in the stately old house.
“I’d ’a’ liked to ’ave ’ad you near me, my dear, but I wouldn’t keep a dog’s kennel in any of the other rooms in this ’ere basement; they’re that damp and dark.”
A fire was burning in the room they were now in, and by its light Jean saw a big bed and some nice old-fashioned furniture.
“This room and next door to it is my ’ome,” said Mrs. Lightfoot with pride. “You’ll sleep under the roof. I goes up and down as little as I can, for though I used to live up to my husband’s name I can’t do with stairs! Still I can move about quick, as you’ll soon see. Like to wash your ’ands? You can do so in my basin as a treat to-day, but henceforth you’ll ’ave to wash ’em at the sink.”
A few moments later Jean came back into the kitchen. She felt very strange and odd in her full brown skirt, her flannel blouse, and the neat, Quaker-like little white muslin cap she and Rachel North had bought that morning.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, “not ashamed to wear a cap as was our last fine lady? A little treasure you’re setting out to be. The last ’ussy I ’ad ’ere, she’s got a job as a demonstrator—putting rouge on her lips and whitening her face. I reckon that’ll suit her ladyship for the present, till she moves on to—I won’t demean myself by saying where.”
She had set out bread, butter, and jam on the kitchen table. Then, apparently afraid lest her praise should make her new help uppish, she observed critically:
“You don’t look over-strong for a country girl. Mind you, there’s stairs ’ere—stairs, stairs, stairs all the time!”
“I’m very strong,” said Jean in a low voice, “it’s only that I’m tired to-day. You see I’ve come a long way.”
“Ay, that’s true—and not over familiar with London, I daresay.”