The sound of her voice was so
completely altered that he almost fancied there must have been
another woman in the room.
"Ring the bell!" she repeated. "I have left my work upstairs. If
you want me to be in good spirits, I must have my work."
Still looking at her, Horace put his hand mechanically to the
bell and rang. One of the men-servants came in.
"Go upstairs and ask my maid for my work," she said, sharply.
Even the man was taken by surprise: it was her habit to speak to
the servants with a gentleness and consideration which had long
since won all their hearts. "Do you hear me?" she asked,
impatiently. The servant bowed, and went out on his errand. She
turned to Horace with flashing eyes and fevered cheeks.
"What a comfort it is," she said, "to belong to the upper
classes! A poor woman has no maid to dress her, and no footman to
send upstairs. Is life worth having, Horace, on less than five
thousand a year?"
The servant returned with a strip of embroidery. She took it with
an insolent grace, and told him to bring her a footstool. The man
obeyed. She tossed the embroidery away from her on the sofa. "On
second thoughts, I don't care about my work," she said.
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