“Why,” cried Cook; hysterical with delight, “as though you need ask, my dear, I mean, m’lady!”
It seemed to Erb that the West End possessed some exceptional forcing properties that made all of its young women grow tall. He stood upright, as though on parade, unconsciously following the lead given by the tightly collared men and by Mr. Danks. As the very tall young woman went across the silent room to the housekeeper his gaze followed her; he would have given half his savings to have been permitted to assume a light, unconcerned, and, if possible, a defiant manner.
“Do you know,” she said brightly, “that I have not been down here since I was ten years old?”
“That’s twelve years ago, Lady Frances,” said the housekeeper. The housekeeper adjusted a bow at the white shoulders of the new arrival with an air of privilege.
“You sometimes used to let me bake things, didn’t you, Cook?”
“I had to take care you didn’t eat ’em,” said Cook, admiring her from the opposite side of the room. The strain on severe countenances around the kitchen relaxed slightly. “The others,” added Cook proudly, “don’t remember. It was before their time, Lady Frances.”
“And now that I am here,” said Lady Frances, “it seems that I am to spoil your party.” The servants and their visitors murmured, “Oh, no!” in an unconvincing way.
“What I thought was,” she went on brightly, “that I might play to you.”
“We have taken the liberty,” said the housekeeper, “of hiring a musical person.”
“But you will be glad of a rest,” said Lady Frances, touching the pianiste on the hand and stopping her in a yawn. “When I was at school at Cheltenham I used to be rather good at dance music.” She turned suddenly and looked down at Louisa. “Perhaps you play?”