“Pickle pork all right?”
“The pickle pork isn’t nearly so bad as it might be,” said Erb. “They couldn’t beat it in Eaton Square. As I was saying, the human brain—”
“If Alice comes down from Eaton Square this afternoon in anything new,” said his young sister definitely, “I shall simply ignore it. In fact, I shall say, ‘Oh, you havn’t got anything new for the spring then yet?’ That,” said the girl gleefully, “that’ll make her aspirate her aitches.”
“We mustn’t forget that she’s our sister.”
“She’d like to get it out of her memory. Being parlourmaid in Eaton Square, and about five foot ten from top to toe, don’t entitle anybody to come down ’ere to Page’s Walk and act about as though Bricklayers’ Arms Station belonged to them. After all, she’s only a servant, Erb; there’s no getting away from that. She doesn’t get her evenings to herself like I do. Compared with her, I’m almost independent, mind you. I may ’ave to work ’ard in the day, I don’t deny it, but after seven o’clock at night I’m me own mistress, and I can go out and about jest as I jolly well like. Tip up the dish, and take some more gravy.”
“As a matter of fact you come ’ome ’ere, and you work about and get the place ready against me coming ’ome.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” demanded his young sister warmly, “if I like to? Can’t I please meself? I’d a jolly sight rather do that than go and wait at table on a lot of over-dressed or under-dressed people, and obliged to keep a straight face whatever silly things you might ’ear them say. Is there a little bit more of the crust you can spare me?”
“I quite admit,” said Erb, supplying her offered plate, “that to me there is something distasteful—”
“I only put the leastest bit of onion in.”
“I’m referrin’ now to the arrangement by which those who possess riches are able to call upon the working portion of the population to enable them to live idle, slothful lives. I may be wrong, but it seems to me—”