"I'm not used to being contradicted by my servants," her ladyship
reminded me.
"My dear, do let the poor girl know whether she dyes her hair or not."
Sir Samuel pleaded for me with more kindness than discretion. "I'm sure
she speaks beautiful English."
[Illustration: "While I wrestled ... with a bodice as snug as the head
of a drum, the lord of all it contained appeared in the doorway"]
"As if that had anything to do with it! She may as well understand, to
begin with, that I won't put up with impudence and answering back.
Hair that colour doesn't go with dark eyes. And eyelashes like that
aren't suitable to lady's-maids."
"If your ladyship pleases, what am I to do with mine?" I asked in the
sweetest little voice; and I would have given anything for someone to
whom I might have telegraphed a laugh.
"Wash the dark stuff off of them and let them be light," were the simple
instructions promptly returned to me.
There was no more to be said, so I cast down the offending features (are
one's lashes one's features?) and swallowed my feelings just as Lady
Turnour will have to swallow my hair and eyelashes if I'm to stop in her
service.
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