The clouds which her compliments had chased from Mr. Braddock’s brow gathered again. “I say, Kay, you know, you really ought to do something about that girl Clara. She’s impossible. I mean, throwing onions at a fellow.” “You mustn’t mind. Don’t worry about her; it’ll make you forget your speech. How long are you supposed to talk?” “About ten minutes, I imagine. You know, this is going to just about kill me.” “What you must do is drink lots and lots of champagne.” “But it makes me spotty.” “Well, be spotty. I shan’t mind.” Mr. Braddock considered. “I will,” he said. “It’s a very good idea. Well, I suppose I ought to be going.” “You’ve got your key? That’s right. You won’t be back till pretty late, of course. I’ll go and tell Claire not to bolt the door.” When Kay reached the kitchen she found that her faithful follower had stepped out of the pages of _Romeo and Juliet_ into those of _Macbeth_. She was bending over a cauldron, dropping things into it. The kitten, now comparatively dry and decustarded, eyed her with bright interest from a shelf on the dresser. “This is the new soup, Miss Kay,” she announced with modest pride. “It smells fine,” said Kay, wincing slightly as a painful aroma of burning smote her nostrils. “I say, Claire, I wish you wouldn’t throw onions at Mr. Braddock.” “I went up and got it back,” Claire reassured her. “It’s in the soup now.” “You’ll be in the soup if you do that sort of thing. What,” asked Kay virtuously, “will the neighbours say?” “There aren’t any neighbours,” Claire pointed out. A wistful look came into her perky face. “I wish someone would hurry up and move into Mon Ree-poss,” she said. “I don’t like not having next-doors. Gets lonely for a girl all day with no one to talk to.” “Well, when you talk to Mr. Braddock, don’t do it at the top of your voice. Please understand that I don’t like it.” “Now,” said Claire simply, “you’re cross with me.” And without further preamble she burst into a passionate flood of tears. It was this sensitiveness of hers that made it so difficult for the young chatelaine of San Rafael to deal with the domestic staff. Kay was a warm-hearted girl, and a warm-hearted girl can never be completely at her ease when she is making cooks cry. It took ten minutes of sedulous petting to restore the emotional Miss Lippett to her usual cheerfulness. “I’ll never raise my voice so much as above a whisper to the man,” she announced remorsefully at the end of that period. “All the same----” Kay had no desire to reopen the Braddock argument. “That’s all right, Claire. What I really came to say was--don’t put the chain up on the front door to-night, because Mr. Braddock is sure to be late. But he will come in quite quietly and won’t disturb you.” “He’d better not,” said Miss Lippett grimly. “I’ve got a revolver.” “A revolver!”