It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous
expostulation. A minute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his
door, and Mrs. Hopper showed her face.
"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.
"Extensive?"
"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Of course I shall make them good, sir."
"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"
"Oh, quite enough--just yet, sir."
Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his
domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door
and the jamb--her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served
him for three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of
her virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate
aptitude for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have
proved to any visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were
by no means rigid, her master had made himself to a certain extent
responsible for this defect; he paid little attention to dust,
provided that things were in their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not
a resident domestic; she came at stated hours. Obviously a widow,
she had a poor, loose-hung, trailing little body, which no
nourishment could plump or fortify. Her visage was habitually
doleful, but contracted itself at moments into a grin of quaint
drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.
"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued.
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