“You are to understand,” Francine replied sharply, “that I must have Miss Ladd’s approval before I can engage you. Suppose you come to Brighton? I will pay your fare, of course.”
“Never mind my fare, miss. Will you give up pumping?”
“Make your mind easy. It’s quite useless to attempt pumping you. When will you come?”
Mrs. Ellmother pleaded for a little delay. “I’m altering my gowns,” she said. “I get thinner and thinner—don’t I, Miss Emily? My work won’t be done before Thursday.”
“Let us say Friday, then,” Francine proposed.
“Friday!” Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed. “You forget that Friday is an unlucky day.”
“I forgot that, certainly! How can you be so absurdly superstitious.”
“You may call it what you like, miss. I have good reason to think as I do. I was married on a Friday—and a bitter bad marriage it turned out to be. Superstitious, indeed! You don’t know what my experience has been. My only sister was one of a party of thirteen at dinner; and she died within the year. If we are to get on together nicely, I’ll take that journey on Saturday, if you please.”
“Anything to satisfy you,” Francine agreed; “there is the address. Come in the middle of the day, and we will give you your dinner. No fear of our being thirteen in number. What will you do, if you have the misfortune to spill the salt?”
“Take a pinch between my finger and thumb, and throw it over my left shoulder,” Mrs. Ellmother answered gravely. “Good-day, miss.”