Whether some dim foreboding of this fact crossed Elizabeth's mind as she stood at the window watching for her mistresses' first arrival at "home," it is impossible to say.

She could feel, though she was not accustomed to analyze her feelings.
But she looked dull and sad.

Not cross, even Ascott could not have accused her of "savageness." And yet she had been somewhat tried.

First, in going out what she termed "marketing," she had traversed a waste of streets, got lost several times, and returned with light weight in her butter, and sand in her moist sugar; also with the conviction that London tradesmen were the greatest rogues alive.

Secondly, a pottle of strawberries, which she had bought with her own money to grace the tea-table with the only fruit Miss Leaf cared for, had turned out a large delusion, big and beautiful at top, and all below small, crushed, and stale.
She had thrown it indignantly, pottle and all, into the kitchen fire.
Thirdly, she had a war with the landlady, partly on the subject of their fire--which, with her Stowbury notions on the subject of coals, seemed wretchedly mean and small--and partly on the question of table cloths at tea, which Mrs.Jones had "never heard of," especially when the use of plate and lines was included in the rent.