Sophia repeated with a resolute intonation:
"I shall make it myself." And after being satisfied that there was no instant need for a renewal of hot-water bottles, she went further downstairs in those list slippers.
As she was descending the dark kitchen steps she heard Amy's voice in pettish exclamation:
"Oh, get out, YOU!" followed by a yelp from Fossette.
She had a swift movement of anger, which she controlled.
The relations between her and Fossette were not marked by transports, and her rule over dogs in general was severe; even when alone she very seldom kissed the animal passionately, according to the general habit of people owning dogs.
But she loved Fossette. And, moreover, her love for Fossette had been lately sharpened by the ridicule which Bursley had showered upon that strange beast.
Happily for Sophia's amour propre, there was no means of getting Fossette shaved in Bursley, and thus Fossette was daily growing less comic to the Bursley eye.
Sophia could therefore without loss of dignity yield to force of circumstances what she would not have yielded to popular opinion.
She guessed that Amy had no liking for the dog, but the accent which Amy had put upon the 'you' seemed to indicate that Amy was making distinctions between Fossette and Spot, and this disturbed Sophia much more than Fossette's yelp.
Sophia coughed, and entered the kitchen.
Spot was lapping his morning milk out of a saucer, while Fossette stood wistfully, an amorphous mass of thick hair, under the table.
"Good morning, Amy," said Sophia, with dreadful politeness.
"Good morning, m'm," said Amy, glumly.
Amy knew that Sophia had heard that yelp, and Sophia knew that she knew.
The pretence of politeness was horrible.
Both the women felt as though the kitchen was sanded with gunpowder and there were lighted matches about.
Sophia had a very proper grievance against Amy on account of the open door of the previous day.
Sophia thought that, after such a sin, the least Amy could do was to show contrition and amiability and an anxiety to please: which things Amy had not shown.
Amy had a grievance against Sophia because Sophia had recently thrust upon her a fresh method of cooking green vegetables.
Amy was a strong opponent of new or foreign methods.
Sophia was not aware of this grievance, for Amy had hidden it under her customary cringing politeness to Sophia.
They surveyed each other like opposing armies.
"What a pity you have no gas-stove here!
I want to make some tea at once for Mrs. Povey," said Sophia, inspecting the just-born fire.
"Gas-stove, m'm?" said Amy, hostilely.
It was Sophia's list slippers which had finally decided Amy to drop the mask of deference.
She made no effort to aid Sophia; she gave no indication as to where the various necessaries for tea were to be found.
Sophia got the kettle, and washed it out.
Sophia got the smallest tea-pot, and, as the tea-leaves had been left in it, she washed out the teapot also, with exaggerated noise and meticulousness.
Sophia got the sugar and the other trifles, and Sophia blew up the fire with the bellows.
And Amy did nothing in particular except encourage Spot to drink.
"Is that all the milk you give to Fossette?" Sophia demanded coldly, when it had come to Fossette's turn.
She was waiting for the water to boil.
The saucer for the bigger dog, who would have made two of Spot, was not half full.
"It's all there is to spare, m'm," Amy rasped.
Sophia made no reply.
Soon afterwards she departed, with the tea successfully made.
If Amy had not been a mature woman of over forty she would have snorted as Sophia went away. But Amy was scarcely the ordinary silly girl.
Save for a certain primness as she offered the tray to her sister, Sophia's demeanour gave no sign whatever that the Amazon in her was aroused.
Constance's eager trembling pleasure in the tea touched her deeply, and she was exceedingly thankful that Constance had her, Sophia, as a succour in time of distress.
A few minutes later, Constance, having first asked Sophia what time it was by the watch in the watch-case on the chest of drawers (the Swiss clock had long since ceased to work), pulled the red tassel of the bell-cord over her bed.
A bell tinkled far away in the kitchen.
"Anything I can do?" Sophia inquired.
"Oh no, thanks," said Constance.
"I only want my letters, if the postman has come.
He ought to have been here long ago."
Sophia had learned during her stay that Sunday morning was the morning on which Constance expected a letter from Cyril.
It was a definite arrangement between mother and son that Cyril should write on Saturdays, and Constance on Sundays.
Sophia knew that Constance set store by this letter, becoming more and more preoccupied about Cyril as the end of the week approached.