"Did he?" laughed Mavis. "It's nearly eight: you'd better take in
the breakfast things."

"Oh, well, if I can't be here, or with you, I'd sooner be with that
dear Mr--"

"Ruskin, Amelia," interrupted Mavis. "Try and get it right, if only
for once."

Amelia took no notice of the interruption, but went on, as she
dusted the cups, before putting them on the tray:

"Dear Mr Fuskin! 'Ow I would have looked after 'im, and 'ow
carefully I'd 'ave counted 'is washing!"

Punctually, as the clock struck eight, the two Miss Mees entered the
breakfast room; they kissed Mavis on the cheek before sitting down
to the meal. They asked each other and Mavis how they had slept, as
was their invariable custom; but the sensitive, observant girl could
not help noticing that the greetings of her employers were a trifle
less cordial than was their wont. Mavis put down this comparative
coldness to their pride at the success of yesterday's festival.

To the indifferent observer, the Miss Mees were exactly alike, being
meagre, dilapidated, white-haired old ladies, with the same beaked
noses and receding chins; both wore rusty black frocks, each of
which was decorated with a white cameo brooch; both walked with the
same propitiatory shuffle. They were like a couple of elderly,
moulting, decorous hens who, in spite of their physical