Only we're none of us where we were
before, my boy. Don't flatter yourself." He shut _Bradshaw_ with a bang,
and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, "No change, no change
from Sanchia," which he turned into "Who is Sanchia? What is she, that all
our swains...?"
[Illustration: The housekeeper! This--person!]
Miss Percival, having played the exact and perfect housekeeper above--with
no apparent interest in life but submergence in her duties--returned to
the ground floor and sought Minnie in the dining-room. She made her survey
calmly, and gave such orders as pertained in smooth tones which could not
jar. She seemed to consult where she really directed. "Shall we have the
_epergne?_ I think we will, don't you? Yes. It's a grand occasion. I don't
think we have ever had ladies at Wanless before." An admission which
staggered Minnie. Her "Oh, yes, Miss Percival," and "Oh, no, Miss
Percival," were appreciative and good to hear.
She was butler, we find, as well as housekeeper, for as she stood there,
meditating the table, Ingram came in, in a hurry, with ideas about wine.
He gave them out in jerks, without looking at her. Sherry, of course, a
hock, Lafite. No champagne: it's beastly unless you are tired.
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