“Who says I haven’t washed my feet?” asked Cyril, guiltily.

Amy’s mention of fine clothes referred to the fact that he was that morning wearing his Sunday suit for the first time on a week-day.

“I say you haven’t,” said Amy.

She was more than three times his age still, but they had been treating each other as intellectual equals for years.

“And how do you know?” asked Cyril, tired of the fire.

“I know,” said Amy.

“Well, you just don’t, then!” said Cyril.  “And what about your feet?  I should be sorry to see your feet, Ame.”

Amy was excusably annoyed.  She tossed her head.  “My feet are as clean as yours any day,” she said.  “And I shall tell your mother.”

But he would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued one of those endless monotonous altercations on a single theme which occur so often between intellectual equals when one is a young son of the house and the other an established servant who adores him.  Refined minds would have found the talk disgusting, but the sentiment of disgust seemed to be unknown to either of the wranglers.  At last, when Amy by superior tactics had cornered him, Cyril said suddenly: 

“Oh, go to hell!”

Amy banged down the spoon for the bacon gravy.  “Now I shall tell your mother.  Mark my words, this time I shall tell your mother.”

Cyril felt that in truth he had gone rather far.  He was perfectly sure that Amy would not tell his mother.  And yet, supposing that by some freak of her nature she did!  The consequences would be unutterable; the consequences would more than extinguish his private glory in the use of such a dashing word.  So he laughed, a rather silly, giggling laugh, to reassure himself.

“You daren’t,” he said.

“Daren’t I?” she said grimly.  “You’ll see. I don’t know where you learn!  It fair beats me.  But it isn’t Amy Bates as is going to be sworn at.  As soon as ever your mother comes into this room!”

The door at the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance came into the room.  She was wearing a dress of majenta merino, and a gold chain descended from her neck over her rich bosom.  She had scarcely aged in five years.  It would have been surprising if she had altered much, for the years had passed over her head at an incredible rate.  To her it appeared only a few months since Cyril’s first and last party.

“Are you all ready, my pet?  Let me look at you.”  Constance greeted the boy with her usual bright, soft energy.

Cyril glanced at Amy, who averted her head, putting spoons into three saucers.

“Yes, mother,” he replied in a new voice.

“Did you do what I told you?”

“Yes, mother,” he said simply.

“That’s right.”

Amy made a faint noise with her lips, and departed.

He was saved once more.  He said to himself that never again would he permit his soul to be disturbed by any threat of old Ame’s.