“I’m coming,” answered Dorothy, submissively, for in the tone there was that which instinctively impels obedience. “What is it?” she asked, when she entered the kitchen.
“Nothink. I only wants to know wot it is you’re layin’ out to ’ave for your—luncheon, if that’s wot you call it.”
“Poached eggs on toast, last night’s cold potatoes warmed over, hot biscuits, jam, and tea.”
Mrs. Smithers’s articulate response resembled a cluck more closely than anything else.
“You can make biscuits, can’t you?” went on Dorothy, hastily.
“I ’ave,” responded Mrs. Smithers, dryly. “Begging your parding, Miss, but is that there feller sawin’ wood out by the chicken coop your ’usband?”
“The gentleman in the yard,” said Dorothy, icily, “is Mr. Carr.”
“Be n’t you married to ’im?” cried Mrs. Smithers, dropping a fork. “I understood as ’ow you was, else I wouldn’t ’ave come. I was never one to——”
“I most assuredly am married to him,” answered Dorothy, with due emphasis on the verb.
“Oh! ’E’s the build of my youngest sister’s poor dead ’usband; the one wot broke the tea set wot I give ’er over ’er poor ’ed. ’E can ’it powerful ’ard, can’t ’e?”