“I'll bet it worn't you wot spilt it—but it's you wot 'as the cleanin' up,” muttered Eliza. “Lemme rub that up now, Miss.” She put down her tray and took the cloth from Cecilia's hand.
“Thanks, ever so, Eliza—but you've got plenty to do yourself.”
“Well, if I 'ave, I ain't the on'y one wot 'as,” said Eliza darkly. Her wizened little face suddenly flushed. “Lor, Miss,” she said confidentially, “you doan't know wot a success that 'at you trimmed for me is. It's a fair scream. I wore it larst night, an' me young man—'im wot's in the Royal Irish—well, it fair knocked 'im! An' 'e wants me to go out wiv 'im next Benk 'Oliday—out to 'Ampstead 'Eath. 'E never got as far as arstin' me that before. I know it was that 'at wot done it.”
“Not it, Eliza,” Cecilia laughed. “It was just your hair under the hat. I told you how pretty it would be, if you would only brush it more.”
“Well, I never 'ad no brush till you give me your old one,” said Eliza practically. “I did brush it, though, a nundred times every night, till Cook reckoned I was fair cracked. But 'air's on'y 'air, an' anyone 'as it—it's not every one 'as an 'at like that.” She clattered plates upon the table violently. “You goin' out this awfternoon, Miss?”
“As soon as I can, Eliza.” Cecilia's face fell. “I must arrange flowers first.”
“I'll 'ave the vawses all ready wiv clean water for you,” said Eliza. “An' don't you worry about the drorin'-room—I'll see as it's nice.”
“Oh, you can't, Eliza—you have no time. I know it's silver-cleaning afternoon.”
“Aw, I'll squeeze it in some'ow.” Eliza stopped suddenly, at a decided footstep in the passage, and began to rattle spoons and forks with a vigour born of long practice. Cecilia picked up the inky cloth, and went out.
Her stepmother was standing by the hall-stand, apparently intent on examining Wilfred's straw hat. She spoke in a low tone as the girl passed her.