Putting the plates in the rack she heard once more Sanders at it again ("He don't give Bonamy a chance," she thought).
"Objective something," said Bonamy; and "common ground" and something else--all very long words, she noted.

"Book learning does it," she thought to herself, and, as she thrust her arms into her jacket, heard something--might be the little table by the fire--fall; and then stamp, stamp, stamp--as if they were having at each other--round the room, making the plates dance.
"To-morrow's breakfast, sir," she said, opening the door; and there were Sanders and Bonamy like two bulls of Bashan driving each other up and down, making such a racket, and all them chairs in the way.

They never noticed her.

She felt motherly towards them.

"Your breakfast, sir," she said, as they came near.