So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is that
badge of pride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to inform
Madam that breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society manner
and addresses me as 'Sir,' and asks with cruel sarcasm for what
purpose (except to boast) I carry the towel, and I say 'Is there
anything more I can do for Madam?' and Madam replies that there is
one more thing I can do, and that is, eat her breakfast for her.
But of this I take no notice, for my object is to fire her with the
spirit of the game, so that she eats unwittingly.

Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my
writing, and I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my
head, which, if it is of any value, has almost certainly been put
there by her. But dare I venture? I know that the house has not
been properly set going yet, there are beds to make, the exterior
of the teapot is fair, but suppose some one were to look inside?
What a pity I knocked over the flour-barrel! Can I hope that for
once my mother will forget to inquire into these matters? Is my
sister willing to let disorder reign until to-morrow? I determine
to risk it. Perhaps I have been at work for half an hour when I
hear movements overhead. One or other of them is wondering why the
house is so quiet. I rattle the tongs, but even this does not
satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers, and now what you
hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing of pots and pans,
or I am making beds, and making them thoroughly, because after I am
gone my mother will come (I know her) and look suspiciously beneath
the coverlet.

The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in sight,