Chapter XXIV. An unlicensed victualler.



Ruin stared us in the face. Were our cherished plans to be
frustrated by a marauding cow, who little realised that she was
imperilling her own means of existence? Were we to turn away three,
five, nine thirsty customers at one fell swoop? Never! None of
these people ever saw me before, nor would ever see me again. What
was to prevent my serving them with tea? I had on a pink cotton
gown,--that was well enough; I hastily buttoned on a clean painting
apron, and seizing a freshly laundered cushion cover lying on the
bureau, a square of lace and embroidery, I pinned it on my hair for
a cap while descending the stairs. Everything was right in the
kitchen, for Mrs. Bobby had flown in the midst of her preparations.
The loaf, the bread-knife, the butter, the marmalade, all stood on
the table, and the kettle was boiling. I set the tea to draw, and
then dashed to the door, bowed appetisingly to the visitors, showed
them to the tables with a winning smile (which was to be extra),
seated the children maternally on the steps and laid napkins before
them, dashed back to the kitchen, cut the thin bread-and-butter, and
brought it with the marmalade, asked my customers if they desired
cream, and told them it was extra, went back and brought a tray with
tea, boiling water, milk, and cream. Lowering my voice to an
English sweetness, and dropping a few h's ostentatiously as I
answered questions, I poured five cups of tea, and four mugs for the
children, and cut more bread-and-butter, for they were all eating
like wolves. They praised the butter. I told them it was a
specialty of the house. They requested muffins. With a smile of
heavenly sweetness tinged with regret, I replied that Saturday was