“Oh, you _know_ I don’t mean anything like _that_!” she added hastily.
“I only meant that you could more easily turn from selling lovely
books, to dispose of one of your own done-with-but-still-charming coats
and skirts, for instance, than if you had to cut up for the refreshment
stall, and return with buttery fingers to respond to the rush there
will be for your autograph.”
“Add the postcards to the books,” I said, trying to be equally amiable,
“and Abigail will gladly run the jumble corner; she will be smarter at
it than you or I.”
Abigail appeared as soon as her ladyship had gone. The farmeress who
supplied us with milk was waiting in the kitchen to know if I wanted
extra milk morning and evening in future, on account of company; as,
if so, she would save it specially. She was experiencing a shortage of
milk, “Hussy” having run dry, and “Clover,” for some unknown reason
that I hadn’t time to listen to, not doing her lactic duty as befitted
her station in life.
Emphatically I said that I should not want any extra milk—and a few
other things.