“What a pity you have no gas-stove here!  I want to make some tea at once for Mrs. Povey,” said Sophia, inspecting the just-born fire.

“Gas-stove, m’m?” said Amy, hostilely.  It was Sophia’s list slippers which had finally decided Amy to drop the mask of deference.

She made no effort to aid Sophia; she gave no indication as to where the various necessaries for tea were to be found.  Sophia got the kettle, and washed it out.  Sophia got the smallest tea-pot, and, as the tea-leaves had been left in it, she washed out the teapot also, with exaggerated noise and meticulousness.  Sophia got the sugar and the other trifles, and Sophia blew up the fire with the bellows.  And Amy did nothing in particular except encourage Spot to drink.

“Is that all the milk you give to Fossette?” Sophia demanded coldly, when it had come to Fossette’s turn.  She was waiting for the water to boil.  The saucer for the bigger dog, who would have made two of Spot, was not half full.

“It’s all there is to spare, m’m,” Amy rasped.

Sophia made no reply.  Soon afterwards she departed, with the tea successfully made.  If Amy had not been a mature woman of over forty she would have snorted as Sophia went away.  But Amy was scarcely the ordinary silly girl.

Save for a certain primness as she offered the tray to her sister, Sophia’s demeanour gave no sign whatever that the Amazon in her was aroused.  Constance’s eager trembling pleasure in the tea touched her deeply, and she was exceedingly thankful that Constance had her, Sophia, as a succour in time of distress.

A few minutes later, Constance, having first asked Sophia what time it was by the watch in the watch-case on the chest of drawers (the Swiss clock had long since ceased to work), pulled the red tassel of the bell-cord over her bed.  A bell tinkled far away in the kitchen.

“Anything I can do?” Sophia inquired.

“Oh no, thanks,” said Constance.  “I only want my letters, if the postman has come.  He ought to have been here long ago.”  Sophia had learned during her stay that Sunday morning was the morning on which Constance expected a letter from Cyril.  It was a definite arrangement between mother and son that Cyril should write on Saturdays, and Constance on Sundays.  Sophia knew that Constance set store by this letter, becoming more and more preoccupied about Cyril as the end of the week approached.  Since Sophia’s arrival Cyril’s letter had not failed to come, but once it had been naught save a scribbled line or two, and Sophia gathered that it was never a certainty, and that Constance was accustomed, though not reconciled, to disappointments.  Sophia had been allowed to read the letters.  They left a faint impression on her mind that her favourite was perhaps somewhat negligent in his relations with his mother.

There was no reply to the bell.  Constance rang again without effect.

With a brusque movement Sophia left the bedroom by way of Cyril’s room.