So on the Sunday morning she had arisen early, just after Amy.

She discovered Constance to be a little better, as regards the neuralgia, but exhausted by the torments of a sleepless night.  Sophia, though she had herself not slept well, felt somehow conscience-stricken for having slept at all.

“You poor dear!” she murmured, brimming with sympathy.  “I shall make you some tea at once, myself.”

“Oh, Amy will do it,” said Constance.

Sophia repeated with a resolute intonation:  “I shall make it myself.”  And after being satisfied that there was no instant need for a renewal of hot-water bottles, she went further downstairs in those list slippers.

As she was descending the dark kitchen steps she heard Amy’s voice in pettish exclamation:  “Oh, get out, you!” followed by a yelp from Fossette.  She had a swift movement of anger, which she controlled.  The relations between her and Fossette were not marked by transports, and her rule over dogs in general was severe; even when alone she very seldom kissed the animal passionately, according to the general habit of people owning dogs.  But she loved Fossette.  And, moreover, her love for Fossette had been lately sharpened by the ridicule which Bursley had showered upon that strange beast.  Happily for Sophia’s amour propre, there was no means of getting Fossette shaved in Bursley, and thus Fossette was daily growing less comic to the Bursley eye.  Sophia could therefore without loss of dignity yield to force of circumstances what she would not have yielded to popular opinion.  She guessed that Amy had no liking for the dog, but the accent which Amy had put upon the ‘you’ seemed to indicate that Amy was making distinctions between Fossette and Spot, and this disturbed Sophia much more than Fossette’s yelp.

Sophia coughed, and entered the kitchen.

Spot was lapping his morning milk out of a saucer, while Fossette stood wistfully, an amorphous mass of thick hair, under the table.

“Good morning, Amy,” said Sophia, with dreadful politeness.

“Good morning, m’m,” said Amy, glumly.

Amy knew that Sophia had heard that yelp, and Sophia knew that she knew.  The pretence of politeness was horrible.  Both the women felt as though the kitchen was sanded with gunpowder and there were lighted matches about.  Sophia had a very proper grievance against Amy on account of the open door of the previous day.  Sophia thought that, after such a sin, the least Amy could do was to show contrition and amiability and an anxiety to please:  which things Amy had not shown.  Amy had a grievance against Sophia because Sophia had recently thrust upon her a fresh method of cooking green vegetables.  Amy was a strong opponent of new or foreign methods.  Sophia was not aware of this grievance, for Amy had hidden it under her customary cringing politeness to Sophia.

They surveyed each other like opposing armies.