"I could..." she debated with tipsy solemnity. "But there's only, then, enough for two."
"Well, we are two!" Jill was impatient.
The cook sniffed. "More often three! ... I'm sure it's enough to drive one crazy, never knowing what's wanted. An' the tradesmen clamouring for their money ... There's the butcher to-day—'e told me straight: 'That's the last j'int you'll get from us!'—I've never lived in such a place...." Her voice rose. She stuck her hands on her hips and faced her young mistress.
"And I won't stay—what's more! I've always been a respectable woman ... and 'ard-working ... an' treated as such..." (The quick anger induced by spirits brought the tears to her bleary eyes.) "I'm sure if my pore 'usband was 'ere, 'e'd say: 'Martha—you clear, my girl.' 'E'd be ashamed—that's wot 'e'd be ... a butler 'e were in good service. So you can tell yer mother, miss, I've made my mind up—an' I goes!"
With a sob of injured pride she seized the bone in a shaky hand.
"Look at that!" She brandished it under Jill's disgusted nose.
"That's been our dinner since Sunday—and Canterb'ry—that's what it is!"
Poor Jill swallowed hard, struggling to keep her temper in check. Diplomacy she knew full well was the only weapon she dared use.
"Now, look here, Cook. I'm awfully sorry. But I don't want to bother Mother. She's not well—and she's worried to death ... You know what it is to feel bad."
"That I do, Miss Jill!" The cook, mollified, wiped her eyes. "I'm sure with my 'eart as is always flutt'ring—an' the 'ot kitchen—an' pore food ... I didn't ought to do scrubbing—it's a crool shame at my age ... But there..." the facile sentiment born of alcohol was bubbling up and drowning anger. "I don't want to upset yer, miss. Yer don't 'ave too gay a life, you an' Master Roddy—bless 'im!—as always 'as a kind word for Cook..."