It seemed to him that this was good enough! He would rather like a job in town for a change--the more particularly as Aurea and her father were staying with General Morven in Eaton Place, and now and then he might obtain a glimpse of her! He glanced through the other letters before finally making up his mind; one was from a nobleman in the north of Scotland, who lived thirty miles from a railway station. He thought of the bitter Scotch winters, and how he would be cut off from all society but that of the servants’ hall; no, that was no good. Another was from a lady who was going on tour to the south of France and Italy. The terms she offered were low, and she preferred as chauffeur, a married man. There were several others, but on the whole the situation in London seemed to be the best. He debated as to whether he should put on his chauffeur clothes or not, but decided against it, and, hailing a taxi-cab, found himself at Rockingham Mansions in ten minutes. These were a fine set of flats, with carpeted stairs, imposing hall, and gorgeously liveried attendants. He asked to be shown to Mrs. Cavendish Foote’s address. It was No. 20 on the third floor. The door was opened by a smart maid with a very small cap, an immensely frizzled head, and sallow cheeks. “To see Mrs. Cavendish Foote on business?” she repeated, and ushered him into the tiny hall, which was decorated with a curious assortment of pictures, stuffed heads, arms, and looking-glasses. “Oh, bring him in here,” commanded a shrill treble voice, and Wynyard found himself entering a large sitting-room, where he was saluted by an overwhelming perfume of scent, and the angry barking of a tiny black Pom. with a pink bow in his hair. The apartment had been recently decorated; the prevailing colours were white and pink--white walls, into which large mirrors had been introduced--pink curtains, pink carpets, pink and white chintz. Two or three half-dead bouquets stood in vases, an opera cloak and a feather boa encumbered one chair, a motor coat another, several papers and letters were strewn upon the floor, and on a long lounge under the windows, a lady--white and pink to match her room--lay extended at full length, her shapely legs crossed, and a cigarette in her mouth. She wore a loose pink _negligé_--the wide sleeves exhibiting her arms bare to the shoulder. “Hullo!” she exclaimed, when she caught sight of Wynyard, as he emerged from behind the screen. “Mrs. Cavendish Foote, I presume?” he inquired. “Right-o!” she answered, suddenly assuming a sitting posture; “and who may _you_ be?” “I’ve come about the situation as chauffeur.” “The chauffeur!” she screamed. “Good Lord! why, I’m blessed if you ain’t a toff!” “Is that a drawback?” he asked gravely.