Mrs. Lightfoot looked relieved.
“I guessed you were something just not quite common,” she admitted cautiously. “The way you put your cup to your lips, in a sort of finicky way, henlightened me. I expect you was sent to a genteel school.”
“I suppose I was,” said the other almost in a whisper. “But I don’t mind hard work. You’ll see I don’t.”
And then suddenly she began to cry. “I—I’ve been so unhappy,” she gasped, “since my father died.”
“There, there! You’ll be ’appy ’ere. Don’t you worry, and don’t you go and think, as many a silly young girl supposes nowadays, that all the good chaps were killed in the war. If there’s only one left, you’ll find him right enough! And if not, I’ll find ’im for you. There’s some good elderly gents about too, just now. Better be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave. Hany old barndoor can keep out the draught! But no carryings on with the lodgers, mind! But there, I won’t insult you, Bet, my dear, by supposing you capable of doing such a thing. Likewise, you won’t ’ave a chance, for I does most of the waiting on the gentlemen myself.”
Then came three knocks on the floor above the kitchen ceiling.
“What’s that?” exclaimed the new “help.”
“My hinvalid—a mystery ’e is—Mr. Gee by name—though not ’is real one, between you and me and the lamp-post. But you’ll have nothing to do with ’im.”
She went off upstairs: then came back, and said suddenly:
“Can you cook at all, my dear, or shall I ’ave to teach you that—as well as the use of a tray?”