“There’s none left, ma’am,” the maid retorted, speaking in that hostile tone which her servants generally assumed towards Miss Finucane. “Yes, there is, unless you’ve drunk it in the kitchen.” An altercation between mistress and maid followed, high words being used on both sides. Stuart went on with his dinner in silent disgust, trying not to listen. He had sat through similar scenes often enough before, but they had not made the same impression on him. It was as though his whole nature had been set throbbing like a bell with a certain note, with which his surroundings were all out of tune. The dinner was not only badly cooked, but it quickly appeared that there was not enough of it. On seeing a few slices of ham set before her in the place of a joint, the mistress of the house lost her temper. “Go and tell the cook to make an omelette,” she ordered angrily. “It’s disgraceful that we can’t have enough to eat.” The parlour-maid departed. A minute or two afterwards the door was flung open violently, and the cook advanced into the middle of the dining-room. “You can’t have an omelette. I’ve no eggs, and the fire’s gone out,” she remarked loudly and aggressively. “What do you mean, cook?” said Molly, evidently rather alarmed. The cook saw her mistress quailing, and raised her voice. “I mean that I’ve cooked as much as I mean to, and I’m not going to do any more. I’m tired of it.” “This is disgraceful!” exclaimed her mistress, appealing to Stuart. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to come in and talk like that, simply because I asked for an omelette.” “Well, you can’t have it, then,” the cook returned, with a ring of triumph. “Very well; that’s enough. Go downstairs!” commanded Molly. The cook tossed her head, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her. “Do you owe the woman any wages?” Stuart asked, as soon as she was gone. He knew by experience that it was useless to interfere in these periodical scenes between Molly and her household. “Not a farthing,” Molly protested. “And I’ve always treated her kindly, too. I can’t think what makes her presume like that.” The cook went down fuming and snorting into the kitchen, and gave the explanation to her sympathizing sisters. “I’ll teach her to send haughty messages out to me, and me a respectable woman whose father had a farm, and six men under him; and her out of the gutter, and no better than a street-walker, if you come to that, though she do ride in her carriage, and wear as many jewels as a Martinet.” “You mean a Marchioness, don’t you, Eleanor?” inquired the housemaid, who had moved in higher spheres.