"My victuals aint bad when they's cold," put in Mrs. Purcell here.
"Well, Prissy, can't you do that?" asked her husband.
"You can do it if you like," she said, getting up at last from the table, whence the great heap of beans had disappeared. "It ain't nothin' to me what you do."
Mr. Purcell demanded no more of a concession from his housekeeper, but went forthwith to one cupboard after another and fetched forth a plate and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon, and finally bread, a platter with cold fried pork on it, and some butter. He had not washed his hands before shewing this civility; and Rotha looked on in doubtful disgust.
"Where's the coffee, Prissy?"
"The last of it went down your throat. You never leaves a drop in the coffee pot, and wouldn't if there was a half a gallon. What's the use o' askin' me, when you know that?"
"Can I have a glass of milk?" said Rotha.
The milk was furnished, and she began to make a very good breakfast on bread and milk.
"Aint there a bit o' pie, Prissy?" asked Mr. Purcell.
"You've swallowed it. There aint no chance for nothin' when you're round."