"Oh, that's nothing."

"Of course I shall make them good, sir."

"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"

"Oh, quite enough--just yet, sir."

Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his
domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door
and the jamb--her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served
him for three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of
her virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate
aptitude for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have
proved to any visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were
by no means rigid, her master had made himself to a certain extent
responsible for this defect; he paid little attention to dust,
provided that things were in their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not
a resident domestic; she came at stated hours. Obviously a widow,
she had a poor, loose-hung, trailing little body, which no
nourishment could plump or fortify. Her visage was habitually
doleful, but contracted itself at moments into a grin of quaint
drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.

"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay
it's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."

"How's that?"

"It's my poor sister, sir--my sister Liza, I mean--she's had one