William Bailey hurried back: he went straight to the writing-room. He thanked heaven that no one had disturbed Rebecca. Without an apology he rapidly untied the ribbons of the bonnet, hoicked off the cloak and was bearing them back to Parrett’s room when he heard the voice of that admirable female raised in hot remonstrance against the misdeeds of a domestic. In tactics as in strategy there is a disposition known as the offensive-defensive. William Bailey was familiar with it. He adopted it now, and in a voice that silenced every other sort, he roared his complaint that the servants perpetually left their clothes hanging about at random right and left all over the house. “Whose is this?” he demanded, pointing to the cloak and bonnet where he had flung them sprawling on a chair. “It’s mine, sir,” said Parrett with considerable dignity. “Oh it is, is it?” said Bailey a little mollified. “I’m sorry, Parrett. If I’d known it was yours I’d have spoken to you privately.” “I never left them there, sir!” said Parrett all aruffle with indignation. “I never said you did, I never said you did. It’s none of my business. I don’t care who left them there; but I will have this house _orderly_ or I will not have it at _all_,” with which enigmatical sentence for the further discipline of Merry’s impossible household, he went back to Demaine in his dressing-gown and brought him through the corridor to the study. “Now my dear fellow,” he said, “are you cold?” “Yes,” said Dimmy. “Are you hungry?” “Yes,” said Dimmy. “Are you thirsty?” “I am very tired,” said Dimmy. “Very well then, you shall eat and drink. I will try and light the fire.” He did so and the room, which was already warm with the June sun, became like an oven. As he rose from his chair Demaine said in some anxiety: “For heavens’ sake don’t send for the servants!” “I’m not going to,” said William Bailey simply. He went to a cupboard and brought out some ham, a loaf and a bottle of wine. Demaine ate and drank. When he had eaten and drunk he could hardly support himself for fatigue. William Bailey took him to his own room and told him to sleep there. “I’ve established,” he said, in a genial tone, “so healthy a reign of terror in this house that you certainly will not be disturbed if you sleep in my bed. I will see about the clothes.” And thus, after so many and so great adventures, George Mulross Demaine slept once again between sheets, in a bed well aired, in a room with reasonable pictures upon the walls, and reasonable books upon the table, with blankets, with curtains, with pillows, with mahogany tallboys, with three kinds of looking-glasses, with an eider-down quilt, with a deep carpet, with a silver reading lamp, soothed by a complete cleanliness, and, in a word, amid all that the governing classes have very properly secured for themselves during their short pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world. CHAPTER XIII