“Where was I?” Nichola demanded shrilly, whirling about.
“I saw you with your bonnet on,” said I, and added with dignity, “You may bring the tea up at once, and mind that there is plenty of hot water.”
Then I scurried upstairs, my heart beating at my daring. I had actually ordered Nichola about. I half expected that in consequence she would bring me cold water, but she came up quietly enough with some delicious tea and sandwiches. At the door, with unwonted meekness, she asked me if everything was right; and I, not abating one jot of my majesty, told her that there might be a bit more cream. She even brought that and left me marveling. I could as easily imagine the kitchen range with an emotion as Nichola with a guilty conscience, and yet sometimes I have a guilty conscience myself and I always act first very self-sufficient and then very humble, just like Nichola.
When she was handing the dessert that night at my solitary dinner, she spoke; and if the kitchen range had kissed a hand at me I should not have been more amazed.
“Every one took their parts very well this afternoon, I thought,” she stiffly volunteered.
I looked at her blankly. Then slowly it dawned for me: The best shawl, the guilty conscience—Nichola had been to the matinée!
“Nichola!” I said unguardedly. “Were you—”
“Certain,” she said curtly, “I ain’t no call to be no more careful o’ my soul than what you are.”
I, the keeper of Nichola, who has bullied Pelleas and me about for years!
“Did—did you like it, Nichola?” I asked doubtfully, a little unaware how to treat a discussion of original sin like this.