With infinite precaution against detection, each sought by hook or by crook to smooth the other’s path. So often as he was abroad, Oliver went without food—and swore he had lunched at Lyons’ and done himself well. Jean crept to the basement and cleaned her husband’s shoes—and let him commend the slut that stole their food. Awakened one night by pain in a game knee, the man lay still till daylight for fear of disturbing her rest. Jean bargained for hot shaving-water—and got it too. It cost her one set of exquisite underclothes every month. They came to cherish each other as they had never cherished themselves. . . . And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds. There was no work in London. Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come. They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips. As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place. “We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——” “There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.” He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose. Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer. “I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .” “What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——” “I’ll get over that, sir.” They rose to their feet. Jean stammered something about a booking-fee. The man inclined his head. “There is nothing to pay, madam.” He came with them to the door and bowed them out. The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . . Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply. _For two months certain . . . a country house in Wiltshire . . . one mile from the village . . . servants’ hall and bathroom . . . wages—three guineas a week, fuel and light . . . sole charge. . . ._ The note concluded— _As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._ The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day. * * * * * Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine like an old hound. It was the quiet hour.