"Wot will you 'ave for lunch?" she demanded breathlessly. "Lamb or 'am?"
Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction-writing, I (her mistress) looked up a little dazed. "'Lamb or 'am,'" I repeated dully, "lamorram? Er—ram, I think, please, Elizabeth."
Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day I returned to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her pretext for entering—that of dusting the roll-top desk with her apron—was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place. Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen with a sigh.
"I yeerd from my young man this morning," she began. A chill foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)
"Do you mean the boiler one?" I asked.
"'Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers," she corrected with dignity. "Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from London to Manchester."
There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.
"If 'e goes to Manchester, there I goes," she went on; "I suppose I'd quite easy get a situation there?"
"Quite easy," I acquiesced in a hollow voice.
She went out leaving me chill and dejected. Not that I thought for one moment that I was in imminent danger of losing her. I knew full well that this was but a ruse on the part of the young man to disembarrass himself of Elizabeth, and, if he had involved the entire Amalgamated Society of Boilermakers in the plot, that only proved how desperate he was.