“Is nobody down?” cried she, sharply.
“I think not, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “I have not heard them. I have been three times in the young ladies’ room, but they would not get up.”
This was not quite true. Martha had been in once, and had been scolded for her pains. “None of them ever will get up on a Sunday morning,” added Martha; “they say, ‘where’s the good?’”
“Bring in breakfast,” crossly responded Lady Augusta. “And then go to the young ladies, and see whether the rest are getting up. What has the cook been at with this coffee?” Lady Augusta added, when she began to pour it out. “It is cold. Her coffee is always cold.”
“It has been made half an hour, I know, my lady.”
The first to appear was the youngest child of all, little Frank; the next his brother, a year older; they wore dirty collars, and their hair was uncombed. Then came the girls—Caroline without a frock, a shawl thrown on, instead, and Fanny in curl papers. Lady Augusta scolded them for their late appearance, forgetting, possibly, that she herself set the example.
“It is not much past ten,” said Caroline. “We shall be in time for college.”
“It is nearly upon half-past,” replied Lady Augusta. “Why do you come down in a petticoat, Caroline?”
“That stupid dressmaker has put no tape to my dress,” fretfully responded Caroline. “Martha is sewing it on.”
Roland lounged in, not more presentable than the rest. Why had Lady Augusta not brought them up to better habits? Why should they come down on a Sunday morning more untidy than on other mornings? They would have told you, had you asked the question, that on other mornings they must be ready to hasten to their daily occupations. Had Sunday no occupation, then? Did it deserve no marked deference? Had I been Lady Augusta Yorke, I should have said to Roland that morning, when I saw his slip-shod slippers and his collarless neck, “If you can show no respect for me, show it for the day.”