But he cast an admiring glance, half wild, half
reckless, at the cook.
"An' you shouting to me to come this last 'arf hour and more!" cried
Mrs. Horton. She, too, apparently, was in a "state."
"You are mistaken, Bridget, I have been singing, as I often do when
attending to the silver, but as for--"
"You can do without a hat," she interrupted. "Come on! I want to go
and look for--for--" She broke off, taking his arm as though they were
going down the Strand or Oxford Street. Her red face beamed. She
looked very proud and happy. She wanted to look for something too, but
she could not believe the moment had really come. She had put it away
so long--like a special dish in a cupboard.
"I don't know what's come over me," she went on very confidentially,
as she moved beside him through the scullery door, "but--but I don't
feel satisfied--not satisfied with meself as I used to be."
"No, Bridget?" It was in his best "7:30" manner. There was a struggle
in him.
"No," said Mrs. Horton, with decision. "I give satisfaction--that I
know--"
"We both do that," said Thompson proudly. "And no one can do a suet
pudding to a turn as you can.
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