"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.
"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.
"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"
"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."
"But—but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things," says she.
"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that."
"But—but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."
"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."
He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I—I'll do my best." And off she marches to the kitchen.