“Before she was married,” said Priscilla, “Mrs. Geraghty--that’s the woman at the gate lodge, the mother of those four children--was our upper housemaid. Aunt Juliet simply loved her. She rubs her into all the other servants day and night. She says she was the only sufficient housemaid. I’m not sure that that’s quite the right word. It may be efficient. Any how she says she’s the only something-or-other-ficient housemaid she ever had; which of course is a grand thing for Mrs. Geraghty, though not really as nice as it seems, because whenever anything perfectly appalling happens Aunt Juliet sends for her. Then she and Aunt Juliet rag the other servants until things get smoothed out again. The minute I saw those children sporting about when by rights they ought to be in bed I knew that Mrs. Geraghty had been sent for. Now you understand the sort of thing you have to expect when we get home. I thought I’d just warn you, so that you wouldn’t be taken by surprise.” Frank felt that he still might be taken by surprise and urged Priscilla to give him some further details about the catastrophe. “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Priscilla. “At least we may. If it’s the kind of thing that’s visible, streams of water running down the front stairs or anything like that, we’ll see for ourselves, but if it happens to be a more inward sort of disaster which we can’t see--and that’s the kind there’s always the worst fuss about--then it may take us some time to find out. Aunt Juliet doesn’t think it’s good for children to know about inward disasters, and so she never talks of them when I’m there except in what she calls French, and not much of that because Father can’t understand her. They may, of course, confide in you. It all depends on whether they think you’re a child or not.” “I’m not.” “I know that, of course. And Aunt Juliet saw you in your evening coat last night at dinner, so she oughtn’t to. But you never can tell about things of that kind. Look at the sponge lady for instance. She said you were the nicest child she ever saw. Still they may tell you.” Frank did not like being reminded of Miss Rutherford’s remark. Priscilla’s repetition of it goaded him to a reply which he immediately afterwards felt to be unworthy. “If they do tell me,” he said, “I won’t tell you.” “Then you’ll be a mean, low beast,” said Priscilla. Frank pulled himself together with an effort. He realised that it would never do to bandy schoolboy repartee with Priscilla. His loss of dignity would be complete. And besides, he was very likely to get the worst of the encounter. He was out of practise. Prefects do not descend to personalities. “My dear Priscilla,” he said, “I only meant that I wouldn’t tell you if it was the sort of thing a girl oughtn’t to hear.”