The cook resented this question. "Ah!" said she with a snort,
"and why does a miller wear a white 'at, Miss Grant, that
being your name I take it. Don't you ask no questions but if
you must know, Miss Loach have weak eyes and don't like glare.
She lives like a rabbit in a burrow, and though the rooms on
the ground floor are sich as the King might in'abit, she don't
come up often save to eat. She lives in the basement room
where you saw her, Miss Grant, and she sleeps in the room orf.
When she eats, the dining-room above is at her service. An' I
don't see why she shouldn't," snorted the cook.
"I don't mean any--"
"No offence being given none is taken," interrupted cook, who
seemed fond of hearing her own wheezy voice. "Emily Pill's my
name, and I ain't ashamed of it, me having been cook to Miss
Loach for years an' years and years. But if you had wished to
behave like a servant, as you are," added she with emphasis,
"why didn't you run round by the veranda and so get to the
back where the kitchen is. But you're one of the new class of
servants, Miss Grant, 'aughty and upsetting."
"I know my place," said Susan, taking off her hat.
"And I know mine," said Emily Pill, "me being cook and
consequently the mistress of this servants' 'all. An' I'm an
old-fashioned servant myself, plain in my 'abits and dress."
This with a disparaging look at the rather smart costume of
the newly-arrived housemaid. "I don't 'old with cockes
feathers and fal-de-dals on 'umble folk myself, not but what I
could afford 'em if I liked, being of saving 'abits and a
receiver of good wages.
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