Florrie’s appearance at nine o’clock in the morning was aggressive. It was not her business to get her mistress out of bed and dress her: she was a housemaid. She regarded distrustfully Catherine’s announcement that she was not feeling very well, that she would not get up just yet, and that Florrie could bring the breakfast upstairs to her. She obeyed truculently. The tray of breakfast pots was placed on a chair by the side of her bed. “There’s not enough milk, I think,” said Catherine, looking into the cream jug; “you’d better fetch a drop more.” Florrie sniffed. “There ain’t no more meulk in the ’ouse, mum,” she replied steadfastly. “Why not?” “’Cos there ain’t, mum.” Catherine raised herself sideways on her elbow, the better to pursue the argument. “Did the milkman leave a pint as usual?” “Yes, mum.” “And this is all that’s left of it?” “Yes, mum.” “Then you must have used far too much with your porridge.... Well, since there isn’t enough, you’d better go to a shop and get another pint.” Florrie fidgeted uneasily with her feet. She was not used to her mistress in such a firm mood. “It’s a long way, mum.... There’s no plice nearer than Brigson’s, daown the ’Igh Road. All daown the ’ill an’ up agin, mum.” “Never mind. Go to Brigson’s.” “Naow, mum?” “Yes, this minute.” “The milkman’ll be here again in ’alf an hour, mum.” Catherine flushed with anger. “Are you going to go to Brigson’s or not?” Florrie raised her eyebrows self-questioningly. “S’powsing I waster say not, mum?” she said impudently. The retort stung Catherine to feverish decision. “You can either go to Brigson’s or take a week’s notice,” she cried shrilly, and let go the elbow that supported her head. Her red hair straggled across the pillow, half hiding her face and effectively preventing Florrie from seeing that she was weeping. Florrie was not hard-hearted, and if she had seen her mistress’s tears she would probably have apologized. But she did not see them: she saw only the red flush on her cheeks and the angry glint in her eyes. She saw that it was a direct contest of wills, and also, which perhaps was the deciding factor, she did not wish to leave Upton Rising and her tram conductor. So she left the room sullenly, put on her hat in front of the dining-room overmantel downstairs, and took the path through the snow towards the High Road. And meanwhile Catherine lay weeping upstairs.... Florrie’s open defiance seemed one more link in the chain of evidence that proved her to be unworthy of respect, devotion or love. Even Florrie despised her: Florrie, with her mule-like doggedness and inferior intellect, judged herself competent to query her mistress’s orders, and treat her with what was very thinly veiled contempt....