"There is absolutely no excuse, mamma, and it's weakness in you to
pretend that there may be. The woman has been gone for hours. There's
her lunch on the table which has never been tasted, and the servant
brought it up at twelve."

She pointed to a tray on which were dishes whose cold contents bore
out the truth of her remark.

"Perhaps she's gone on strike," said the younger daughter, without
removing her eyes from H.M.S. "Consternation." "I shouldn't wonder if
we went downstairs again we'd find the house picketed to keep away
blacklegs."

"Oh, you can always be depended on to talk frivolous nonsense," said
her elder sister scornfully. "It's the silly sentimental fashion in
which both you and father treat work-people that makes them so
difficult to deal with. If the working classes were taught their
place--"

"Working classes! How you talk! Dorothy is as much a lady as we are,
and sometimes I think rather more of a lady than either of us. She is
the daughter of a clergyman."

"So she says," sniffed the elder girl.

"Well, she ought to know," replied the younger indifferently.

"It's people like you who spoil dependents in her position, with your
Dorothy this and Dorothy that. Her name is Amhurst."