Mrs. Banks looked at her daughter, in a mute appeal for help.
“I’ll take yours up, too, shall I?” said the amiable housekeeper, as Mrs. Banks, with an air of defying criticism, drew a cap from a paper-bag and put it on.
“I’ll take mine myself, please,” said Miss Banks, with coldness.
“Oh, well, you may as well take them all then,” said Mrs. Church, putting the mother’s bonnet and shawl in her arms. “I’ll go and see that the kettle boils,” she said, briskly.
She returned a minute or two later with the teapot, and setting chairs, took the head of the table.
“And how’s the leg?” enquired Captain Barber, misinterpreting Mrs. Banks’ screwed-up face.
“Which one?” asked Mrs. Banks, shortly.
“The bad ’un,” said the captain.
“They’re both bad,” said Mrs. Banks more shortly than before, as she noticed that Mrs. Church had got real lace in her cuffs and was pouring out the tea in full consciousness of the fact.
“Dear, dear,” said the Captain sympathetically.