“Are you deranged, child?” asked the lady.
“No, ma’am, if you please; but Miss Pritty told me to be sure to offer you a cup.”
“To offer me a cup, child!”
“Yes, ma’am. At least to offer a cup to any one who should call.”
It need scarcely be added that the lady declined the tea, and went away, observing to herself in an undertone, that “she must be deranged.”
The small domestic again shut the door and spurted.
It was in her estimation quite a rare, delicious, and novel species of fun. To one whose monotonous life was spent underground, with a prospect of bricks at two feet from her window, and in company with pots, pans, potato-peelings, and black-beetles, it was as good as a scene in a play.
The next visitor was the butcher’s boy, who came round to take “orders” for the following day. This boy had a tendency to chaff.
“Well, my lady, has your ladyship any orders?”
“Nothink to-day,” answered the domestic, curtly.