“Certainly, at once.”
“Before I clear away?”
“What do you want to clear away?”
“The breakfast things, Madam. And,—and the fish-man can’t wait.”
“Tell him to call again then, later on.”
“He’s on his rounds, Madam. He only calls the once.”
“The fishmonger be—” Grizel coughed audibly, remindful of responsibilities towards the young. It was borne in upon her that the moment which she had dreaded was upon her, and could no longer be escaped. The fish-man was waiting, could not wait, could not return; it therefore behoved the mistress of the household to repair to the kitchen and interview the cook. She rose from the packing case, gathered her skirts around her, and turned to the door.
“Kindly go and tell Mrs Mason that I am coming!”
Mrs Mason was on duty beside the kitchen table. Having heard from Parsons’ lips a bated account of her lady’s splendour, she also was setting forth on the day’s duties with a flavour of excitement. Spread out neatly in rows were the remains of last evening’s repast. Cold fish, cold cutlets, dishevelled chicken, half-eaten sweets. Grizel, who had never before been called upon to interview food in déshabillé, turned from the sight with a shudder.
“You can use those up in the kitchen.” The cook acquiesced, and concealed her complaisance.