“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Well after teatime. I do know that.”
“Can’t you get a little nearer than that?”
“No, I can’t. I’ve got my work to do, haven’t I? I can’t go on looking at clocks the whole time—and it wouldn’t be much good anyway—the alarm loses a good three-quarters every day, and what with putting it on and one thing and another, I’m never exactly sure what time it is.”
This perhaps explains why our meals are never punctual. They are sometimes too late and sometimes bewilderingly early.
“Was it long before Mr. Redding came?”
“No, it wasn’t long. Ten minutes—a quarter of an hour—not longer than that.”
I nodded my head, satisfied.
“Is that all?” said Mary. “Because what I mean to say is, I’ve got the joint in the oven and the pudding boiling over as likely as not.”
“That’s all right. You can go.”
She left the room, and I turned to Griselda.
“Is it quite out of the question to induce Mary to say sir or ma’am?”
“I have told her. She doesn’t remember. She’s just a raw girl, remember?”
“I am perfectly aware of that,” I said. “But raw things do not necessarily remain raw forever. I feel a tinge of cooking might be induced in Mary.”
“Well, I don’t agree with you,” said Griselda. “You know how little we can afford to pay a servant. If once we got her smartened up at all, she’d leave. Naturally. And get higher wages. But as long as Mary can’t cook