"There are some things, Mary, which I never thought I should have to put up with. And one of them is the insolence of local work people. A Billings has painted houses for Robsons round Market Burton since my grandfather's days, and never but what there was straight dealing all round."
"Oh dear, have you been having trouble?" From the corner of her eye she could see that David had cocked his head at the mention of "work people," as a terrier pricks his ears when you mention rats.
"Trouble? I don't have trouble when there is any impertinence from my dependents, Mary. I dismiss them."
"Yes, but what happened?"
"They had begun last Tuesday to scrape the paint off the front porch. We were to have three coats of that good dark green. What I cannot stand are those vulgar fawns and reds that people seem so fond of now. We have always had green on the front door since I was a child."
"Did Billings want to paint you red, then?"
She was conscious of a sudden convulsive movement from David, temporarily overcome by the idea of anyone painting Mrs. Bannister red.
"Well. I'll say nothing of that, though at the time we may have had words." Sarah was eyeing David up and down, slowly and deliberately, a habit of hers when encountering strangers in a relative's drawing-room. If she had possessed a lorgnette, Mary was sure she would have used it now. "I say nothing of the colour, but when I wanted them to stay for five minutes longer in the evening to finish off round the bell—you know what a mess it makes if you leave it overnight round the bell—would they stay? They said, if you please and by your leave, that their union wouldn't let them work overtime. Their union indeed! A pretty pass we're coming to if we have to be told what's right by a union! At my own front door too!"
Unions! Heavens, David's favourite opening! Three days had taught Mary the danger signals. She rushed into the breach.
"Oh, yes, how trying! Now, Cousin Sarah, wouldn't you like"—she was about to add—"to take your cloak off," but David forestalled her.