"Certainly."
"Very well, ma'am," says Cyril, sort of tragic and mysterious.
He hadn't more'n got through the swing-door before Doris slumps in her
chair, puts her face into her hands, and begins lettin' out the sobs
reckless. Course, Westy jumps to the rescue and starts pattin' her on
the back and offerin' soothin' words. So does Vee.
"There, there!" says Vee. "We don't mind a bit. Such things are bound
to happen."
"But I--I don't know what to do," sobs Doris. "It's--it's been getting
worse every day. They began all right--the servants, I mean. But
yesterday Marie was impudent, and to-night Helma has gone out when she
shouldn't, and now Cook has spoiled everything, and--"
We ain't favored with the rest of the sad tale, for just then there's a
quick scuff of feet, and Cyril comes skatin' through the pantry door
and does a frantic dive behind the sideboard.
Doris straightens up, brushes her eyes clear, and makes a brave stab at
bein' dignified.
"Snee," says she, real reprovin'.
"I--I beg pardon, ma'am," says Cyril, edgin' out and revealin' a broad
black smooch on his shirt-front as well as a few other un-butlery signs.
"Why, whatever has happened to yon?" demands Doris.
"I'm not complaining, ma'am," says Cyril; "but Cook, you see, she--she
didn't like it because of my bringing back the roast.
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