"Now, wotcher goin' to do wiv that duster, Miss?" she inquired. "I told
yer I'd do it for yer."

"Mrs. Rainham is waiting for me to do it, Eliza. I'm sorry."

"Ow!" Eliza's expression and her tilted nose spoke volumes. "Suppose
she finks I wouldn't clean 'er old silver proper. Silver,
indeed!--'lectrer-plyte, an' common at that. Just you cut and run as
soon as she's out of the 'ouse, Miss; I know she's goin', 'cause 'er
green and yaller dress is a-airin' on 'er bed."

"It's not much good, Eliza. I ought to be in the Park now." Cecilia
knew she should not allow the girl to speak of her mistress so
contemptuously. But she was disheartened enough at the moment not to
care.

"Lor!" said Eliza. "A bloomin' shyme, I calls it!"

Cecilia found her stepmother happily engaged upon a succession of wrong
notes that made her wince. She dusted the room swiftly, aware all the
time of a watchful eye. Occasionally came a crisp comment: "You didn't
dust that window-sill." "Cecilia, that table has four legs--did you only
notice two?"--the effort to speak while playing generally bringing the
performer with vigour upon a wrong chord. The so-called music became
almost a physical torment to the over-strained girl.

"If she would only stop--if she would only go away!" she found herself
murmuring, over and over. Even the thought of Bob waiting in Hyde Park
in the chill east wind became dim beside that horrible piano, banging