"Upon my life! What impertinence!" she cried, throwing the cloak upon the floor. "Put away your own cloak."
"What—what?" Plunkett shouted, enraged, and starting up.
"Now, pray be lenient with them, brother. They are quite strange to our ways, perhaps—and then they are very tired, you know. Probably overworked by their last master. Leave matters to me. I'll put them quite at their ease;" whereupon Lionel took his hat and held it out to Martha.
"Martha—take it, if you please," Martha looked at him haughtily, and turned her back on him. Poor Lionel was distracted and abashed.
"Well, really, I don't—I don't know just what to do myself," he declared, as his brother snorted with satisfaction at Lionel's discomfiture.
"Well," said Lionel, hesitating a moment; then he took his hat and hung it up himself; then Plunkett picked up his cloak and waited upon himself.
"A pretty kettle-of-fish, I should say," he muttered. "Well, then, to your spinning!"
"To our spinning?" they cried in unison.
"Yes, yes, to your spinning," Plunkett returned testily. "Do you expect to do nothing but entertain us with conversation? To your spinning, I said." Then all at once the women burst out laughing.
"Are ye good for nothing?" Plunkett shouted, in a greater rage. "Come, we've had enough of this! You go and bring those spindles," and Plunkett shouted this so loudly that the girls were downright frightened at last.