"If you please, miss"—the untidy maid stood in the doorway, aggressively—"the chicken 'asn't come yet and Cook sez it would be no good sending round, as the shop's shut."
Jill jumped up from the floor where she crouched drying her wet hair before the fire. She glanced up at the clock and frowned.
"Why, it's half past seven!—Of course. She ought to have told me long ago."
"I'm sure, miss"—the other protested with a faint smile not unmixed with malice—"it isn't Cook's fault—she does 'er best. But I'm sure in this 'ouse it's 'ard to please. What with meals at any hour and never knowing if it's two or three ... I'm sure..." She stopped short at the sudden anger in Jill's expressive gray eyes.
"That will do." She threw back her hair, which fell in a dark cloud over her shoulders, narrowing
