Robin.  There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt.

Jessie.  And a great pie of gooseberries.

Joan. [Faintly.] O I couldn’t touch a mouthful of food, don’t speak to me about it.

Robin.  I likes talking of dinner.  After I’ve done eating of it, I likes next best to talk about it.

Luke.  See here, missis.  Let’s have a glass of summat cool for Miss Clara.

Emily. [Calling angrily.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great lazy-boned donkey?

Maggie. [Comes in from the back kitchen, her apron held to her eyes.] Did you call me, mistress?

Emily.  Get up a bucket of water from the well.  Master’s sister wants a drink.

Maggie. [Between sobs.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would the young lady like it in a jug?

Emily. [With exasperation.] There’s no end to the worriting that other folks do make.

Jessie.  Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother.

Robin. [To Joan.] Do you know what Maggie’s crying for, Aunt Clara?

Joan.  I’m sure I don’t, little boy.

Robin.  ’Tis because she’s got to go.  Mother’s sent her off.  ’Twas what she said of mother’s tongue.

Emily. [Roughly taking hold of Robin and Jessie.] Come you along with me, you ill-behaved little varmints.  ’Tis the back kitchen and the serving maid as is the properest place for such as you.  I’ll not have you bide ’mongst the company no longer. [She goes out with the children and followed by Maggie.]

[Directly they have left the room Joan, whose manner has been nervously shrinking, seems to recover herself and she assumes a languid, artificial air, badly imitating the ways of a lady of fashion.

Joan. [Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan.] Well, I never did meet with such goings on before.

Miles.  You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss Clara.  We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here.

Luke.  Come now, ’tisn’t so bad as all that with we.  There baint many what has the tongue of mistress yonder.

Joan.  I’m quite unused to such people.

Luke.  And yet, Miss Clara, ’tisn’t as though they were exactly strangers to you like.

Joan.  They feel as good as strangers to me, any way.

Miles.  Ah, how well I understand that, Miss.  ’Tisn’t very often as we lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at my counters.

Joan.  I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn’t feel so terrible faint and sinking.

Luke. [Going to the back kitchen door.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself up a bit.  The lady is near fainting, I do count.