Ambrose Sault had once presented Christina with five hundred postal cards. It was one of the freakish things that Ambrose did, but behind it, there was a solid reason. Christina enjoyed a constant supply of old magazines and out-of-date periodicals. Evie collected them for her from her friends. And in these publications were alluring advertisements, the majority of which begged the reader, italically, to send for Illustrated Catalogue No. 74, or to write to Desk H. for a beautiful handbook describing at greater length the wonders of the articles advertised. Sometimes samples were offered, samples of baby's food, samples of fabric, samples of soap and patent medicine, and other delectable products. Christina had expressed a wish that she could write, and Ambrose had supplied the means. Thereafter Christina's letter-bag was a considerable one. She knew more about motor-cars, their advantages over one another, their super-excellent speeds and economies, than the average dealer. If you asked her what car ran the longest distance on a can of petrol, she would not only tell you, but would specify which was the better of the gases supplied. She knew the relative nutritive qualities of every breakfast food on the market; the longest-wearing boots and the cheapest furniture. Evie had finished her meal when the postman knocked. "A letter from Teddy and a sample for Christina, I suppose," speculated Mrs. Colebrook, hurrying to the door. She invariably ran to meet the postman having a confused idea that it was an offence, punishable under the penal code, to keep him waiting. There was no mail for Christina. "Here's your letter." Evie took the stout and expensive looking envelope, embossed redly with the name of the hotel. "Who's writing to me?" asked Mrs. Colebrook. She turned the letter over, examined the handwriting, critically deciphered the post-mark--finally tore open the flap of the envelope. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Colebrook. She looked at the heading again. "Who is 'Johnson and Kennett'?" she asked. "The house agents? There is a firm of that name in Knightsbridge. What is it, mother?" Mrs. Colebrook read aloud. "_Dear Madam_: We have been requested to approach you in regard to work which we feel you would care to undertake. A client of ours has a small house on the continent, for which he is anxious to secure a housekeeper. Knowing, through Dr. Merville, that you have a daughter who is recovering from an illness, he asks me to state that he would be glad if your daughter accompanied you. There is practically no work, three servants, all of whom speak English, are kept, and our client wishes us to state that the grounds are extensive and pretty, and hopes that you will make the freest use of them, and the small car which he will leave there. He himself does not expect to occupy the house, so that you will be practically free from any kind of supervision." The salary was named. It was generous.