Boyd had run out to buy some milk.
Dan had already gone, and his half-empty cup of black coffee was on
the kitchen table. Ellen sniffed it and raised her eyebrows.
She rolled up her sleeves, put the toast in the oven and the ham in
the frying pan, with much the same grimness with which she had sat
the night before listening to Mrs. Boyd's monologue. If this was
the way they looked after Willy Cameron, no wonder he was thin and
pale. She threw out the coffee, which she suspected had been made
by the time-saving method of pouring water on last night's grounds,
and made a fresh pot of it. After that she inspected the tea towels,
and getting a tin dishpan, set them to boil in it on the top of the
range.
"Enough to give him typhoid," she reflected.
Ellen disapproved of her surroundings; she disapproved of any woman
who did not boil her tea towels. And when Edith came down carefully
dressed and undeniably rouged she formed a disapproving opinion of
that young lady, which was that she was trying to land Willy Cameron,
and that he would be better dead than landed.
She met Edith's stare of surprise with one of thinly veiled hostility.
"Hello!" said Edith.
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