“Why, dear heart, all in the dusk! Here’s a little dish or two.”
“Set them down on the table.”
“You’ll get your death chill—there, sitting at that window—”
The woman fidgeted officiously about the room, as though trying to insinuate her sympathy betwixt the girl’s silence and reserve. Her dilatory habit only roused Barbara’s impatience. Mrs. Jael’s sly, succulent motherliness had lost its power of deceiving, so far as Anne Purcell’s daughter was concerned.
“Light the candles.”
She remained motionless while the woman bustled to and fro.
“Thanks. You can leave me, Jael.”
The tire-woman could meet a snub with the most obtuse good temper.
“Should you be tired, Mistress Barbara, I can come and put you to bed, my dear, while my lady is at the playhouse.”
“I am old enough to put myself to bed, am I not?”