"Why, it's half past seven!—Of course. She ought to have told me long ago."
"I'm sure, miss"—the other protested with a faint smile not unmixed with malice—"it isn't Cook's fault—she does 'er best. But I'm sure in this 'ouse it's 'ard to please. What with meals at any hour and never knowing if it's two or three ... I'm sure..." She stopped short at the sudden anger in Jill's expressive gray eyes.
"That will do." She threw back her hair, which fell in a dark cloud over her shoulders, narrowing into damp points far below the line of her waist. "I'll come down and see Cook myself."
Lizzie retreated, her face sullen, before the peremptory young voice. Then, changing her mind, she whisked round and barred Jill's passage insolently.
"I'd like to say I want to leave. This day month." She tossed her head. "I don't seem to suit—and it don't suit me!—such goings-on ... an' lawless talk. I ain't used to a mistress as ups and breaks windows—it ain't decent!—an' my young man, 'e sez..."
"Be silent!"—Jill was white with suppressed rage—"If you want to give notice you must speak to Mrs. Uniacke."
"Or Mr. Somerfield, I s'pose..."
The barbed shaft stung the girl as she ran down the stairs, leaving Lizzie, quivering, in possession of the field.
Jill reached the basement, breathless and angry.
"Cook!" she called at the kitchen door. A stout and slovenly woman turned slowly round from before the range.