“Is it your intention to visit the scullery in those garments, may I ask?”
Grizel tilted in her turn, and returned his stare with an enchanting smile. She looked young and fresh, and adorably dainty; an ideal bride deluxe.
“In the first place,” she said, dimpling, “what precisely is, and does—a scullery?”
“A scullery, my child, is an apartment approximate to, and an accessory of, a kitchen. It is equipped with a sink, and is designed for the accommodation of pots and pans, brushes and brooms. Likewise boots, and er—uncooked vegetables. Every mistress of a small establishment visits the kitchen and scullery at least once in the twenty-four hours.” Grizel considered the subject, thoughtfully rubbing her nose.
“Why vegetables?”
“Why not?”
“With brushes and boots?”
“It seems unsuitable, I grant. But they do. I’ve seen them when I’ve been locking up. On the floor. In a wooden box. Carrots and turnips, and potatoes in their skins.”
Grizel straightened herself determinedly, and attacked her breakfast.
“I shall never visit the scullery!” she said firmly. “It would spoil my appetite. Thank you so much for warning me, ducky doo!”