“Yes, Miss,” said Mary slightly smiling.
“And sing and play,” more contemptuously still.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Humph. Read Byron, Moore, Scott, doubtless, and perhaps the French poets?” she continued with a contemptuous smile of incredulity.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Yes, Miss. I suppose if I should ask you if you read French and sung Italian, you would reply with your parrot phrase, ‘yes, Miss.’ ”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Upon my word! Ha, ha, ha! here’s a linen-draper’s apprentice for you! I suppose you look to marry some nobleman at the least, with all them accomplishments, if you can! What package is that beneath your arm, my pretty minx,” for Miss Clayton had conceived a sudden and unaccountable (save that her youth and beauty were the cause,) dislike for Mary. And without waiting for a reply she snatched it from her.
“For Major Leslie Pierpoint,
No. 27, South Sixth St.”