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About half-past three there sounded the knock of a visitor at the house door. Expecting no one, Cecily had given no directions; the parlour-maid hurried upstairs to ask if she was "at home." She replied that the name must first be announced to her. It was Mrs. Travis. Cecily hesitated, but decided to receive her.
Elliot would be glad to see him now. "Mrs. Elliot?" cried Ansell. "Not Mr. Elliot?" "It's all the same," said Stephen, and moved towards the house. "You see, I only left my name. They don't know why I've come." "Perhaps Mr. Elliot sees me meanwhile?" The parlour-maid looked blank. Mr. Elliot had not said so. He had been with Mrs. Elliot and Mr. Pembroke in the study.
And she so despised Florence that she would have preferred it to be a parlour-maid. There are very decent parlour-maids. And, suddenly, there came into her mind the conviction that Maisie Maidan had a real passion for Edward; that this would break her heart and that she, Leonora, would be responsible for that. She went, for the moment, mad.
As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman.
Keep quiet, there's a good girl, the fact is, Mr. Ashton's had an accident, and I want to see that lady." "Mrs. Killenhall," answered the parlour-maid. "And the young lady her name?" asked the Inspector. "Miss Wickham." The Inspector walked inside the house. "Just ask Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham if they'll be good enough to see Inspector Drillford for a few minutes," he said.
As soon as G.J. had been let into the abode by Concepcion's venerable parlour-maid, the voice of Concepcion came down to him from above: "G.J., who is your oldest and dearest friend?" He replied, marvellously schooling his voice to a similar tone of cheerful abruptness: "Difficult to say, off-hand." "Not at all. It's your beard." That was her greeting to him.
Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back."
However, he had forgotten that the door was locked, and he had to go and open it. A tray with coffee and milk and sugar and slices of bread-and-butter was in the doorway, and behind the tray the little parlour-maid of the little hotel. He greeted the girl and instructed her to carry the tray to the table by the window. "You are prompt," said Olive Two, kindly.
It was, therefore, excessively discomposing to her that, during the following week, in the very height of apparently cloudless domestic tranquillity, the housemaid and the parlour-maid should in one black hour successively demand an audience, and successively, in the floods of tears proper to such occasions, give warning. Inquiry as to their reasons was fruitless.
I fell into a brown study as I walked on, and a voice at my side made me start. It was a woman's voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs. Steerforth's little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to the altered character of the house; and wore but one or two disconsolate bows of sober brown.