At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs. Bishop tore hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled envelopes at her side. The contents of one seemed to vex her.
“Oh!” she cried aloud. “That miserable Marie! She promised me to have it done to-day, and now she puts it off until Monday. It's too provoking!” She turned to Orde for sympathy. “Do you know ANYTHING more aggravating than to work and slave to the limit of endurance, and then have everything upset by the stupidity of some one else?”
Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs. Bishop paid no attention whatever. She started suddenly up from the table.
“I must see about it!” she cried. “I plainly see I shall have to do it myself. I WILL do it myself. I promised it for Sunday.”
“You mustn't do another stitch, mother,” put in Carroll Bishop decidedly. “You know what the doctor told you. You'll have yourself down sick.”
“Well, see for yourself!” cried Mrs. Bishop. “That's what comes of leaving things to others! If I'd done it myself, it would have saved me all this bother and fuss, and it would have been done. And now I've got to do it anyway.”
“My dear,” put in the general, “perhaps Carroll can see Marie about it. In any case, there's nothing to work yourself up into such an excitement about.”
“It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?” cried Mrs. Bishop, turning on him. “I like the way you all sit around like lumps and do nothing, and then tell me how I ought to have done it. John, have the carriage around at once.” She turned tensely to Orde. “I hope you'll excuse me,” she said very briefly; “I have something very important to attend to.”
Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.
“I must be going,” said he.