your life. You, a diseased, pasty-faced little street-walker, too bad
even for the slums, to keep you, to be dressed up and waited on by
respectable servants! How dare you come into this house! I'd like to
wring your miserable sick-chicken's neck for you!"

She was in a boiling rage, and stamped her foot and poured out her words
so rapidly that they almost ran into each other; but Fan's whole previous
life had served to make her indifferent to hard words, however unjust,
and the housemaid's torrent of abuse had not the least effect.

Rosie, on her side, finding that her rage was wasted, sat down to recover
herself, and then began to jeer at her victim, criticising her
appearance, and asking her for the cast-off garments--"for which your
la'ship will have no further use." Finding that her ridicule was received
in the same silent passive way, she became more demonstrative.
"Somebody's been trimming you," she said. "I s'pose Miss Starbrow was
your barber--a nice thing for a lady! Well, I never! But there's one
thing she forgot. Here's a pair of scissors. Now, little sick monkey, sit
still while I trim your eyelashes. It'll be a great improvement, I'm
sure. Oh, you won't! Well, then I'll soon make you." And putting the pair
of small scissors between her lips, she seized Fan by the arms and tried
to force her down on the sofa. Fan resisted silently and with all her
strength, but her strength was by no means equal to Rosie's, and after a
desperate struggle she was overcome and thrown on to the couch.

"Now, will you be quiet and let me trim you!" said the maid.

"No."

In speaking, Rosie had dropped the scissors from her mouth, and not being