“Oh,” said Dorothy, “you’re Sarah. I had almost given you up.”
“Begging your parding, Miss,” rejoined Mrs. Smithers in a chilly tone of reproof, “but I take it it’s better for us to begin callin’ each other by our proper names. If we should get friendly, there’d be ample time to change. Your uncle, God rest ’is soul, allers called me ‘Mis’ Smithers.’”
Somewhat startled at first, Mrs. Carr quickly recovered her equanimity. “Very well, Mrs. Smithers,” she returned, lightly, reflecting that when in Rome one must follow Roman customs; “Do you understand all branches of general housework?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be makin’ no attempts in that direction,” replied Mrs. Smithers, harshly. “I doesn’t allow nobody to do wot I does no better than wot I does it.”
Dorothy smiled, for this was distinctly encouraging, from at least one point of view.
“You wear a cap, I suppose?”
“Yes, mum, for dustin’. When I goes out I puts on my bonnet.”
“Can you do plain cooking?” inquired Dorothy, hastily, perceiving that she was treading upon dangerous ground.
“Yes, mum. The more plain it is the better all around. Your uncle was never one to fill hisself with fancy dishes days and walk the floor with ’em nights, that’s wot ’e wasn’t.”
“What wages do you have, Sa—Mrs. Smithers?”