Mathilde was dazzled. What with this bird in hand, and another in the bush (the eligible hairdresser), she was ready to do almost anything for Maria. Later that night, in undressing Lady Henry, she complained of suffering such agony that she feared for the morrow. Luckily, should she be incapacitated for a short time, there was a girl now in the house (a young person in the place of the first housemaid, absent on account of trouble in the family) who had been lady’s maid and knew her business. Lady Henry was too sleepy to care what might happen to-morrow--indeed, scarcely listened to Mathilde’s murmurings; but when to-morrow was to-day, and a sweet-faced, sweet-voiced girl announced that Mathilde could not leave her bed, the spoiled beauty remembered last night’s conversation. After some grumbling, she consented to try what Jordan could do; and while the second housemaid pouted over Maria’s work, Maria was busy ingratiating herself with Lady Henry--ingratiating herself so thoroughly that Mathilde would have trembled jealously for the future could she have seen or heard. Joan was one of those rare creatures, born for success, who set their teeth in unbreakable resolve to do whatever they must do, well. Being a lady herself, with all a lady’s fastidious tastes, she knew how a lady liked to be waited upon. She was not attracted by Lady Henry, whom men called an angel, and women "a cat," but she was as attentive as if her whole happiness depended on her mistress’s approbation. Mathilde was efficient, but frivolous and flighty, sometimes inclined to sulkiness; and Lady Henry, superbly indifferent to the sufferings of servants, decided that she would not be sorry if Mathilde were ill a long time. Two or three days went by; Joan kept the Parisienne supplied with _bonbons_ and French novels, and carried up all her meals, arranged almost as daintily as if they had been for her Ladyship. Mathilde was happy, and Joan was--waiting. But her patience was not to be tried for long. On the third day, she was told that her mistress was dining at home, alone with Lord Henry. This was such an unusual event that Joan was sure it meant something, especially when Lady Henry demanded one of her prettiest frocks. A footman, inclined to be Maria’s slave, was smiled upon, intercepted during dinner, and questioned. "They’re behaving like turtle-doves," said he. Joan had expected this. "That little cat has guessed or discovered that everything is settled, and she means to get the truth out of him this evening, so that somehow she can give the news to _The Daily Beacon_ to-night, in time to go to press for to-morrow," the girl reflected. She was excited, but the great moment had come, and she kept herself rigidly under control, for much depended upon calmness and fertility in resource. "They will have their coffee in Lady Henry’s boudoir," Joan reflected, "and that is when she will get to work."