At that magic moment a sharp snapping and crackling came from the kettle, and Nichola wheeled with a frown.
“So!” she cried angrily, “you come down here, letting my lard get too hot to go near to! Is it not that I am baking? And as for tea, it may be that there isn’t any tea. Go away!”
“Pelleas,” said I, as we climbed the stairs, “if it were not that Nichola is too old to work anywhere else—”
“I know it,” Pelleas nodded frowning.
This is the dialogue in which we take part after each of Nichola’s daily impertinences.
At four o’clock that afternoon I was roused from my drowsihead on hearing a little tap at my door. Lisa came in, her face flushed, her blue embroidered frock shimmering and ruffling to her feet.
“O Aunt Etarre,” she begged, “put on your gray gown and your Mechlin fichu, will you? And come down right away—well, almost right away,” she added naïvely.
“I will come presently,” I assured her, as if I did not understand; and then the bell rang and Lisa, her eyes like stars, tapped down the stairs.
I was a long time about my dressing. The gray grosgrain silk is for very special occasions, and I had not worn my Mechlin collar since Pelleas’ birthday nearly a year ago. When I had them both on and my silver comb in my hair I heard Nichola’s step outside my door. I bade her enter, but she merely stood for a moment on the threshold.
“Che!” she said grimly. “I hope, mem, you’ve got your neck well packed with flannel under that slimpsey stuff. One would say you dress lightly, lightly for fear of missing the rheumatism.”