“Her nervous system indeed,” said the lady, stung by the cook’s presumption in having a nervous system. “What’s anyone’s nervous system compared with mine? Who’s in charge of the staff, then?”
“Me,” said William simply. “I’m all there is left of it.”
He was rewarded by an even finer display of hysterics than the one before. He sat and watched this one, too, with critical enjoyment as one might watch a firework display or an exhibition of conjuring. His attitude seemed to irate her. She recovered suddenly and launched into another tirade.
“Here I come,” she said, “as paying guest to be nursed back to health and strength from a state of neurasthenic prostration, and find myself left to the mercies of a common house-boy, a nasty, common, low, little rapscallion like you—find myself literally murdered by neglect, but I’ll sue you for damages, the whole lot of you—the doctor and the housemaid and the cook and you—you nasty little—monkey ... and I’ll have you all hung for murder.”
She burst into tears again and William continued to watch her, not at all stung by her reflections on his personal appearance and social standing. He was hoping that the sobbing would lead to another fit of hysterics. It didn’t, however. She dried her tears suddenly and sat up.
“It’s more than an hour and a half,” she said pathetically, “since I had any nourishment at all. The effect on my nervous system will be serious. My nerves are in such a condition that I must have nourishment every hour, every hour at least. Go and get me a glass of milk at once, boy.”
William obligingly went downstairs and looked for some milk. He couldn’t find any. At last he came upon a bowl of some milky-looking liquid. Much relieved he filled a glass with it and took it upstairs to the golden-haired lady. She received it with a suffering expression and closing her eyes took a dainty sip. Then her suffering expression changed to one of fury and she flung the glass of liquid at William’s head. It missed William’s head and emptied itself over a Venus de Milo by the door, the glass, miraculously unbroken, encaging the beauty’s head and shoulders. William watched this phenomenon with delight.
“You little fiend!” screamed the lady, “it’s starch!”
“Starch,” said William. “Fancy! An’ it looked jus’ like milk. But I say, it’s funny about that glass stayin’ on the stachoo like that. I bet you couldn’t have done that if you’d tried!”
The lady had returned to her expression of patient suffering. She spoke with closed eyes and in a voice so faint that William could hardly hear it.