“I absolutely refuse to use it,” said the younger lady, smiling.
“Pray remember that you are my guest, Polly.”
“And therefore entitled to do exactly as I like.”
Miss Dwarris rose to her feet, a massive old woman of commanding presence, and stretched out a threatening hand.
“If you leave this house without an umbrella, you shall not come into it again. You shall never cross this threshold so long as I am alive.”
Miss Ley cannot have been in the best of humours that morning, for she pursed her lips in the manner already characteristic of her, and looked at her elderly cousin with a cold scorn most difficult to bear.
“My dear Eliza, you have a singularly exaggerated idea of your importance. Are there no hotels in London? You appear to think I stay with you for pleasure rather than to mortify my flesh. And really the cross is growing too heavy for me, for I think you must have quite the worst cook in the Metropolis.”
“She’s been with me for five-and-twenty years,” answered Miss Dwarris, two red spots appearing on her cheeks, “and no one has ventured to complain of the cooking before. If any of my guests had done so, I should have answered that what was good enough for me was a great deal too good for anyone else. I know that you’re obstinate, Polly, and quick-tempered, and this impertinence I am willing to overlook. Do you still refuse to do as I wish?”
“Yes.”
Miss Dwarris rang the bell violently.