The cab came to an abrupt stop before the bronze figure of a barefooted negro boy holding out an iron ring in one chubby paw. Ellen faced a front door of many bevelled panes of glass which reflected the bright sky into her eyes. Her knees failed her, but with a free hand she grasped the doctor’s sleeve, finding in the act reassurance enough to mount the steps between the red stone pillars. A maid appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, it’s you, doctor,” she said, beaming at them from under her neat white cap. “Mrs. Seymour is waiting in the library. Go right in, please.”
Ellen found herself in a room filled with book-shelves, and mahogany, and leather-covered chairs, facing a small lady who did not leave her straight, uncomfortable seat. The greying hair was done up in a knot on the top of her head and behind it was a dark spreading comb. She wore a light blue silk frock with a white collar of lace that folded back over her shoulders and left her neck bare. It was old-fashioned looking, Ellen thought, yet “nice” as she would have put it, meaning smart, and she noticed that the woman’s throat was smooth and plump. Her graceful ankles showed, crossed, above a pair of little grey slippers with very high heels. What a little doll of a person! she thought.
“Good morning, doctor,” said the lady, shaking hands with Schottman, while Ellen stood in the door. Then she turned to her.
“Sit down, Mrs. Williams. You mustn’t feel strange here, because I am sure we are going to like each other. The doctor has told me nice things about you.”
Ellen thought no more of dolls. The assured voice, and what she could only describe as the foreign way “Aunt Mathilda” pronounced her words, awed her. She did not know that this was what people called cultivated. She obeyed the injunction to sit down, her eyes glued trustfully but timidly upon her new mistress.
“I’m not going to keep you long this morning, because for the next day or two you will have little to do and will be getting accustomed to the place. You can take care of the child yourself?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Ellen, and smiled. “I’ve taken care of many more than this one, and done the work besides.”
“I see. That’s splendid. Well, you will have plenty of time for her. It can be managed very well. Gina is fond of children and will look after the baby when you are busy, and then there is my nephews’ nurse, Mrs. Stone. Gina is my personal maid. The other servants are Marie, who is the parlour maid and waitress, John, the gardener and stable man, and the laundress Annie, who lives out. So the work is pretty well divided. And then there is Miss Wells, the trained nurse for Mrs. Blaydon. The doctor may have told you that Mrs. Blaydon never leaves her room.”
Ellen lost track of this catalogue of servants, yet she felt a happy sense of importance in listening to these matter-of-fact and self-respecting details. It was as though she were being taken into the confidence of the household. She tried to attend Mrs. Seymour’s every word with seriousness, and felt her embarrassment dropping away from her.