"Take it
upstairs again." The perfectly trained servant, marveling
privately, obeyed once more. Horace, in silent astonishment,
advanced to the sofa to observe her more nearly. "How grave you
look!" she exclaimed, with an air of flippant unconcern. "You
don't approve of my sitting idle, perhaps? Anything to please
you! _I_ haven't got to go up and downstairs. Ring the bell
again."
"My dear Grace," Horace remonstrated, gravely, "you are quite
mistaken. I never even thought of your work."
"Never mind; it's inconsistent to send for my work, and then send
it away again. Ring the bell."
Horace looked at her without moving. "Grace," he said, "what has
come to you?"
"How should I know?" she retorted, carelessly. "Didn't you tell
me to rally my spirits? Will you ring the bell, or must I?"
Horace submitted. He frowned as he walked back to the bell. He
was one of the many people who instinctively resent anything that
is new to them. This strange outbreak was quite new to him. For
the first time in his life he felt sympathy for a servant, when
the much-enduring man appeared once more.
"Bring my work back; I have changed my mind.
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