"Missis is ——" said Jearje, supplying the blank with a wink, and meaning in a temper this morning. "Missis," like all nervous people, was always in a fury about nothing when her mind was intent on an object; in this case, the butter.
"Here's eleven o'clock," she cried, in the sitting-room, pointing to the clock, "and the beds ain't made."
"I've made the beds," said stolid Luce.
"And the fire isn't dusted up."
"I've dusted up the fire."
"And you're a lazy slut"—pushing Luce about the room.
"I bean't a lazy slut."
"You haven't touched the mantelpiece; give me the duster!"—snatching it from her.
"He be done."
"All you can do is to stand and talk with the men. There's no water taken up stairs."