No, she will conquer; and she answers quite gently.
"Bob, how can you expect the younger ones to behave properly if you set them a bad example? They all watch you," and she goes out to call her mother to dinner.
The kitchen is in a truly dreadful state; table, chairs, and saucepans, all heaped together; a liberal sprinkling of soot over everything; mother, with a great smudge of soot across her face, Clara as grimy as a sweep herself.
"Dinner? Why, I declare I forgot all about it! Can I come? Bless the child, of course not. Just look at the state that careless man has left everything in; it's disgraceful."
"But, mother, dinner's all ready, and——"
"Oh, that's all right; help the children, and I'll come when I can."
Betty's feelings are all up in arms again. She has cooked the dinner herself, and mother won't even take the trouble to come and eat it—her birthday dinner, too! Again her indignation almost masters her.
"You must come, mother. Bob's horridly cross."
"Poor boy. Something has upset him at school, I expect. He's made to work much too hard over those lessons. Now, Clara, I've told you over and over again that I won't have the table scrubbed before the floor's swept. Take that pail away at once, and fetch the soft broom!"
Betty sees that further interference will be equally hopeless, and goes upstairs, the spirit of rebellion surging in her heart.