here." She placed
the soaked cloth on the waste-paper basket and polished the top of the
table vigorously.

"I'll bet it worn't you wot spilt it--but it's you wot 'as the cleanin'
up," muttered Eliza. "Lemme rub that up now, Miss." She put down her
tray and took the cloth from Cecilia's hand.

"Thanks, ever so, Eliza--but you've got plenty to do yourself."

"Well, if I 'ave, I ain't the on'y one wot 'as," said Eliza darkly.
Her wizened little face suddenly flushed. "Lor, Miss," she said
confidentially, "you doan't know wot a success that 'at you trimmed for
me is. It's a fair scream. I wore it larst night, an' me young man--'im
wot's in the Royal Irish--well, it fair knocked 'im! An' 'e wants me to
go out wiv 'im next Benk 'Oliday--out to 'Ampstead 'Eath. 'E never got
as far as arstin' me that before. I know it was that 'at wot done it."

"Not it, Eliza," Cecilia laughed. "It was just your hair under the hat.
I told you how pretty it would be, if you would only brush it more."

"Well, I never 'ad no brush till you give me your old one," said Eliza
practically. "I did brush it, though, a nundred times every night, till
Cook reckoned I was fair cracked. But 'air's on'y 'air, an' anyone 'as
it--it's not every one 'as an 'at like that." She clattered plates upon
the table violently. "You goin' out this awfternoon, Miss?"

"As soon as I can, Eliza." Cecilia's face fell. "I must arrange flowers
first."

"I'll 'ave the vawses all ready wiv clean water for you," said Eliza.
"An' don't you worry about the drorin'-room--I'll see as it's nice."

"Oh, you can't, Eliza--you have no time. I know it's silver-cleaning
afternoon."

"Aw, I'll squeeze it in some'ow." Eliza stopped suddenly, at a decided
footstep in the passage, and began to rattle spoons and forks with a
vigour born of long practice. Cecilia picked up the inky cloth, and went
out.

Her stepmother was standing by the hall-stand, apparently intent on
examining Wilfred's straw hat. She spoke in a low tone as the girl
passed her.

"I wish you did not find so much pleasure in gossiping with servants,
Cecilia. It is such a bad example for Avice. I have spoken about it to
you before."

Cecilia did not answer. She went upstairs with flaming cheeks, and
draped the cloth across the hand basin in the bathroom, turning the tap
vengefully. A stream of water flowed through the wide stain.

"There's more real kindness in that poor little Cockney's finger than
there is i