This struck Marcella as illogical. To her it seemed
that, in illness at least, all men were brothers.
"There's a stoker just died of heat apoplexy: there'll be a funeral
presently," he said coolly. "What on earth are you doing?"
"People are so unkind. Knollys got into trouble yesterday because these
silly things were not clean," she said, polishing away furiously.
"But you can't do the work of a servant," he said, aghast.
"I can. Of course I can. I often have. I've worked in the fields with
the men, and I've milked the cows and made the butter. Oh, lots of
things--"
"Oh well, I suppose a farmer's daughter can do those things, Marcella.
But, look here, old girl, when we're married you'll have to be on your
dignity a bit."
She flushed a little and the storm light came into her eyes. Louis did
not see it. He sat on the edge of the table, and expostulated with her
for a long time. But she went on until the last spoon was polished.
"Don't you think we'd better get something for Knollys? Sal volatile or
iced water, or something?" she said at last, looking at her black hands.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, leave him alone. It's typical of the servant class to be bowled
over on the slightest provocation. I expect, as a matter of fact, he can
hear what we're saying now. He's got you taped pretty well and knew that
if he worked on your sympathies you'd do his work while he miked about.
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