But how?'
But I said nothing. I, too, was naturally rather nervous. Mothers
are kittle cattle.
'I'll tell her at supper,' I decided.
And she hovered round me, like a sea-gull round a steamer, as I
went upstairs.
There was a ring at the door. She flew, instead of letting the
servant go. It was a porter with my bag.
Just as I was coming down-stairs again there was another ring at
the door. And my mother appeared magically out of the kitchen, but
I was beforehand with her, and with a laugh I insisted on opening
the front door myself this time. A young woman stood on the step.
'Please, Mrs Dawson wants to know if Mrs Durance can kindly lend
her half-a-dozen knives and forks?'
'Eh, with pleasure,' said my mother, behind me. 'Just wait a
minute, Lucy. Come inside on the mat.'
I followed my mother into the drawing-room, where she kept her
silver in a cabinet.
'That's Mrs Dawson's new servant,' my mother whispered. 'But she
needn't think I'm going to lend her my best, because I'm not.'
'I shouldn't, if I were you,' I supported her.
And she went out with some second-best in tissue paper, and beamed
on Mrs Dawson's servant with an assumed benevolence.
'There!' she exclaimed. 'And the compliments of the season to your
mistress, Lucy.'
After that my mother disappeared into the kitchen to worry an
entirely capable servant.
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