"They'll drive their own cars, then, damn them," he had said once,
"if they can get any to drive. And answer their own bells, if
they've got any to ring. And get up and cook their own breakfasts."
"Which you won't have any to cook," Grayson had said irritably, from
the head of the long table. "Just a word, my man. That sort of
talk is forbidden here. One word more and I go to Mr. Cardew."
The chauffeur had not sulked, however. "All right, Mr. Grayson," he
said affably. "But I can go on thinking, I daresay. And some of
these days you'll be wishing you'd climbed on the band wagon before
it's too late."
Ellen, turning the ham carefully, was conscious that her revolt had
been only partially on Lily's account. It was not so much Lily's
plight as the abuse of power, although she did not put it that way,
that had driven her out. Ellen then had carried out her own small
revolution, and where had it put her? She had lost a good home, and
what could she do? All she knew was service.
Edith poured herself a cup of coffee, and taking a piece of toast
from the oven, stood nibbling it. The crumbs fell on the not
over-clean floor.
"Why don't you go into the dining-room to eat?" Ellen demanded.
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