“The kitchen maid and the laundress’s assistant wait on the first table; but one day when, the maid of one of Miss Ponsonby’s friends comin’ down over late, she was served with instead o’ by them, she gave Mrs. Maggs the ‘orriblest settin’ down, as not knowin’ her business in puttin’ a lady’s lady with servants’ servants, the same which Mrs. Maggs does know perfectly (accidents bein’ unpreventable), bein’ child of Lord Peacock’s steward and his head nurse, and swallowin’ it all in with her mother’s milk, so to speak, not borrowin’ it second hand as some of the great folks on the Bluffs themselves do from their servants, not feelin’ sure of the kerrect thing, yet desirin’ so to do.  Mrs. Maggs, poor body, she has more mess with that servants’ hall first table than with all the big dinners the master gives.

“‘Mrs. Corkle,’ says she, bein’ used to that name, besides Corkle bein’ kin to her husband, ’what I sets before my own household, as it were, they leaves or they eats, it’s one to me; but company’s got to be handled different, be it upstairs or down, for the name of the ’ouse, but when Mr. Jollie, the French valet that comes here frequent with the master’s partner, wants dripped coffee and the fat scraped clean from his chop shank, else the flavour’s spoiled for him, and Bruce the mistress’ brother’s man wants boiled coffee, and thick fat left on his breakfast ham, what stands between my poor ’ead and a h’assleyum? that’s what I wants to know.  Three cooks I’ve had this very season, it really bein’ the duty of the first kitchen maid to cook for the servants’ hall; but if a cook is suited to a kitchen maid, as is most important, she’ll stand by her.  No, Martha Corkle, wages is ’igh, no doubt,—­fortunes to what they were when we were gells,—­but not ‘igh for the worry; and bein’ in service ain’t what it were.’”

Then I knew that Martha, even as her bosom heaves over her friend’s grievances, was also sighing with content at thought of Timothy Saunders and her own lot; and I recalled the Lady of the Bluffs’ passing remark, and felt that I am only beginning to realize the deliciousness of “comfortable poverty.”

* * * * *

Miss Lavinia and I spent some time browsing among the shops, finally bringing up at an old conservative dry goods concern in Broadway, the most satisfactory place to shop in New York, because there is never a crowd, and the salesmen, many of them grown gray in the service, take an Old World interest in their wares and in you.

While I was trying to convince Miss Lavinia as to the need of the serviceable, she was equally determined to decoy me toward the frivolous; and I yielded, I may say fell, to the extent of buying a white crepey sort of pattern gown that had an open work white lilac pattern embroidered on it.  It certainly was very lovely, and it is nice to have a really good gown in reserve, even if a plainer one that will stand hugging, sticky fingers, and dogs’ damp noses is more truly enjoyable.