"Thank goodness I don't then," said Cecil, stiffly. "Who's that tray for?"
"Brownie, of course." Norah was getting a little ruffled—criticism like this had not come to her.
"Well, I think it's extraordinary—and so would my mother," Cecil said, with an air of finality.
"I suppose a town is different," said Norah, striving after patience. "We like to look after everyone here—and I think it's grand when everyone's nice to everyone!" She paused; it was hard to be patient and grammatical, too.
"School will teach you a number of things," said her cousin loftily. He rose and put down his cup. "A lady shouldn't lower herself."
"Dad says a lady can't lower herself by work," retorted Norah. "Anyhow, if taking tea to dear old Brownie's going to lower me, it'll have to, that's all!"
"You don't understand," said Cecil. "A lady has her own place, and to get on terms of familiarity with the lower classes is bad for both her and them." He looked and felt instructive. "It isn't exactly the action that counts—it's the spirit it fosters—er—the feeling—that is, the—er, in short, it's a mistake to—"
"Oh, please be careful, Cecil, you're sitting in some dough!"
Norah sprang forward anxiously, and instructiveness fell from Cecil as one sheds a garment. He had sat down on the edge of the table in the flow of his eloquence; now he jumped up angrily, and, muttering unpleasant things, endeavored to remove dough from his person. Norah hovered round, deeply concerned. Pastry dough, however, is a clinging and a greasy product, and finally the wrathful lecturer beat a retreat towards the sanctuary of his own room, and the cook sat down and shook with laughter.
"My cake!" she gasped, in the midst of her mirth. She flew to the oven and rescued Jim's delicacy.