“You haven’t started a maid, have you, Flo?” asked Mrs. Challoner.
Her sister looked at her, half-bewildered, then replied—
“No, that’s the parlour-maid. I know what you are thinking—that she will soon be telling me ‘it is not her place’ to push in a hairpin, or fasten a hook. I ought to have a proper maid, I know. But when I said so to Jem, he said there were already six women in the house to help his wife to do her part of the partnership, while to get the money which keeps the whole affair floating, there are only himself and two clerks. Jem turns that way sometimes. It’s very ridiculous of him. But he generally comes right by-and-by. Men do, if one knows how to manage them. The crosser he is the sooner it’s over, and the more sorry he is, and the more ready to make amends.”
“But six women, Flo?” echoed Lucy, “Is it really so? That’s an increase, isn’t it?”
“Six women and a boy—the page,” Florence returned in a stage whisper. “Jem actually forgot all about him, for, of course, he should have counted in somewhere, either on my side or Jem’s.”
“That’s an increased contingent, isn’t it?” asked Lucy.
“Well, yes, I believe it is. I’ve not seen you for such a time. There’s cook and her scullery-maid, and the housemaid, and the parlour-maid, and the schoolroom-maid, and the nursery governess. And it is not one more than is needed. Mrs. Jinxson, next door, has only one child, but she has seven women servants, and a footman instead of a boy. And she wasn’t brought up as we were, Lucy. She was quite a common person. You can see that still, under all the veneer. You’ll meet her to-night. I say, Lucy, how nice you look! How do you manage it? I believe the fairies dress you sometimes! I am so glad you’ve come. It is such folly of you to tie yourself up to Hugh. Why, a queen’s children have to be left to servants sometimes. I don’t think you had any high hopes of your present girl, but I suppose she is giving you satisfaction, and is turning out a swan, as geese have a knack of doing under your hands.”
Lucy was not quite proof against Florence’s little flatteries. They reminded her of old times. She answered playfully—
“My ‘present girl,’ as you call her—you must mean Jane Smith—is now my past girl, and is represented by another who is a woman of about forty.”
“Dear, dear! So you’ve had another change! Even immaculate you! Now you won’t wonder at my changes. You used not to find it easy to believe they were necessary. But you won’t readily get another Pollie. Such good fortune does not recur.”