Constance is always polite to her servants; it is a bad style, middle-class to be rude to one's inferiors.
"If you please, 'm, I really think as something oughter to be done for Miss Craven; she is uncommon bad, poor young lady!"
"What is the matter with her?" inquires the other, placidly; "nothing but influenza, I daresay; it always goes through a house."
"Indeed, 'm, I don't know; but she has a hawful pain in her side, and she can scarce draw her breath, and she is hot—as hot as fire."
"Good heavens!" cries Constance, thoroughly roused by this gay picture; "I hope it is not anything catching!"
Reassured on this point, and having ordered the attendance of Mr. Brand, she returns unruffled to the fireside.
"What was that mysterious communication, Constance?" asks St. John, lazily, quite willing to be amicable now that their relative positions are made clearly evident.
"She only came to tell me that Miss Craven was very unwell," she answers, carelessly. "Servants exaggerate so; I daresay it is nothing!"
"What is the matter with her?" he asks, hurriedly.
"I really don't know," she replies, drily; "you had better wait till Mr. Brand comes, and ask him."