“Well I calls ’em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, Primmins sez, bein’ a butler he should know the French, an’ ’tis a French word, an’ it’s nothin’ but little dishes ’anded round, olives an’ anchovies, an’ sardines an’ messes of every kind, enough to make ye sick to look at ’em—­they swallers ’em, an’ then we sends in soup—­two kinds, white an’ clear.  They swallers that, an’ the fish goes in—­two kinds—­the old Squire never had but one—­that goes down, an’ then comes the hentreys.  Them’s sometimes two—­sometimes four—­it just depends on the number we ’as at table.  They’se all got French names—­there’s nothing plain English about them.  But they’se only bits o’ meat an’ fowl, done up in different ways with sauces an’ vegetables, an’ the quality eats ’em up as though they was two bites of an apple.  Then we sends in the roast and b’iled—­and they takes good cuts off both—­then there’s game,—­now that’s nearly allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down on a dish an’ no one else wants it—­but there’s never a morsel left for me, I do assure you!  Then comes puddings an’ sweets—­then cheese savouries—­then ices—­an’ then coffee—­an’ all the time the wine’s a-goin’, Primmins sez, every sort, claret, ’ock, chably, champagne,—­an’ the Lord alone He knows wot their poor insides feels like when ‘tis all a-mixin’ up together an’ workin’ round arterwards.  But, as I sez, ‘tain’t no business o’ mine if the fash’nables ’as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I’m told, ’ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should ‘a’ bin dead an’ done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an’ soda to drown ’em if ’twas all put in a tub at once—–­”

“But Miss Vancourt,” interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had been listening to her friend’s flow of language in silent wonder,—­“She don’t eat an’ drink like that, do she?”

“Miss Maryllia, bless ’er ’art, sits at her table like a little queen,”—­said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion—­“Primmins sez she don’t eat scarce nothin’, and don’t say much neither.  She just smiles pretty, an’ puts in a word or two, an’ then seems lookin’ away as if she saw somethink beautiful which nobody else can see.  An’ that Miss Cicely Bourne, she’s just a pickle!—­’ow she do play the comic, to be sure!—­she ran into the still-room the other day an’ danced round like a mad thing, an’ took off all the ladies with their airs an’ graces till I nearly died o’ larfin’!  She’s a good little thing, though, takin’ ’er all round, though a bit odd in ’er way, but that comes of bein’ in France an’ learnin’ music, I expect.  But I really must be goin’—­there’s heaps an’ heaps to do, but by an’ by we’ll have peace an’ quiet again—­they’re all a-goin’ next week.”