He looked round in wonder. The sound of her voice was so completely

altered that he almost fancied there must have been another woman in the

room.

"Ring the bell!" she repeated. "I have left my work upstairs. If you

want me to be in good spirits, I must have my work."

Still looking at her, Horace put his hand mechanically to the bell and

rang. One of the men-servants came in.

"Go upstairs and ask my maid for my work," she said, sharply. Even the

man was taken by surprise: it was her habit to speak to the servants

with a gentleness and consideration which had long since won all their

hearts. "Do you hear me?" she asked, impatiently. The servant bowed,

and went out on his errand. She turned to Horace with flashing eyes and

fevered cheeks.

"What a comfort it is," she said, "to belong to the upper classes! A

poor woman has no maid to dress her, and no footman to send upstairs. Is

life worth having, Horace, on less than five thousand a year?"

The servant returned with a strip of embroidery. She took it with an

insolent grace, and told him to bring her a footstool. The man obeyed.

She tossed the embroidery away from her on the sofa. "On second

thoughts, I don't care about my work," she said. "Take it upstairs

again." The perfectly trained servant, marveling privately, obeyed once

more. Horace, in silent astonishment, advanced to the sofa to observe

her more nearly. "How grave you look!" she exclaimed, with an air of

flippant unconcern. "You don't approve of my sitting idle, perhaps?

Anything to please you! _I_ haven't got to go up and downstairs. Ring

the bell again."

"My dear Grace," Horace remonstrated, gravely, "you are quite mistaken.

I never even thought of your work."

"Never mind; it's inconsistent to send for my work, and then send it

away again. Ring the bell."

Horace looked at her without moving. "Grace," he said, "what has come to

you?"

"How should I know?" she retorted, carelessly. "Didn't you tell me to

rally my spirits? Will you ring the bell, or must I?"

Horace submitted. He frowned as he walked back to the bell. He was one

of the many people who instinctively resent anything that is new to

them. This strange outbreak was quite new to him. For the first time

in his life he felt sympathy for a servant, when the much-enduring man

appeared once more.

"Bring my work back; I have changed my mind." With that brief

explanation she reclined luxuriously on the soft sofa-cushions, swinging

one of her balls of wool to and fro above her head, and looking at it

lazily as she lay back. "I have a remark to make, Horace," she went on,

when the door had closed on her messenger. "It is only people in our

rank of life who get good servants. Did you notice? Nothing upsets that

man's temper. A servant in a poor family should have been impudent; a

maid-of-all-work would have wondered when I was going to know my own

mind." The man returned with the embroidery. This time she received

him graciously; she dismissed him with her thanks. "Have you seen your

mother lately, Horace?" she asked, suddenly sitting up and busying

herself with her work.




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