"My God!" I cried, throwing up my hands in hopeless despair. "You--you--wait! I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I want the truth, Britton. Who put it into that confounded head of yours that I am--er--in love with the Countess? Speak! Who did it?" He lowered his voice, presumably because I had dropped mine to a very loud whisper. I also had glanced over both shoulders. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I must be honest, sir. It was you as first put it into my 'ead, sir." "I?" My face went the colour of a cardinal's cap. "You, sir. It's as plain as the nose on your--" "That will do, Britton," I commanded. He remained discreetly silent. "That will do, I say," I repeated, somewhat testily. "Do you hear, sir?" "Yes, sir," he responded. "That will do, you says." "Ahem! I--ahem!" Somewhat clumsily I put on my nose-glasses and made a pretext of examining his burden rather closely. "What's this you have here." "Shoes, sir." "I see, I see. Let me have them." He handed me my own. "The others, if you please," I said, disdaining the number tens. "May I inquire, sir, where you are taking _these_?" I had the Countess's pumps in my hands. He explained that he was going to drop mine in my room and then take hers upstairs. "You may drop mine as you intended. I shall take care of these." "Very good, sir," said he, with such positive relief in his voice that I glared at him. He left me standing there, a small pump in each hand. Five minutes later I was at her door, a pump in each hand and my heart in my mouth. A sudden, inexplicable form of panic took possession of me. I stood there ready to tap resoundingly on the panel of the door with the heel of a slipper; I never raised my hand for the purpose. Instead of carrying out my original design, I developed an overpowering desire to do nothing of the sort. Why go on making a fool of myself? Why add fuel to the already pernicious flame? Of course I was not in love with her, the idea was preposterous. But, just the same, the confounded servants were beginning to gossip, and back stair scandal is the very worst type. It was wrong for me to encourage it. Like a ninny, I had just given Britton something to support his contention, and he wouldn't be long in getting down to the servants' hall with the latest exhibit in the charge against me. Moreover, if every one was talking about it, what was to prevent the silly gossip from reaching the sensitive ears of the Countess? A sickening thought struck me: could it be possible that the Countess herself suspected me of being in love with her? A woman's vanity goes a long way sometimes. The thought did not lessen the panic that afflicted me. I tip-toed away from the door to a less exposed spot at the bend in the stairway.