Then she waited again. It seemed to her that five minutes passed before she heard the smart young footman mounting the stairs slowly. She did not wait for his knock upon the door but opened it herself. “How dare Tonson!” she began. “I have rung four or five times! How dare she!” The smart young footman’s manner had been formed in a good school. It was attentive, impersonal. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he answered. “What do you mean? What does _she_ mean? Where is she?” Feather felt almost breathless before his unperturbed good style. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he answered as before. Then with the same unbiassed bearing added, “None of us know. She has gone away.” Feather clutched the door handle because she felt herself swaying. “Away! Away!” the words were a faint gasp. “She packed her trunk yesterday and carried it away with her on a four-wheeler. About an hour ago, ma’am.” Feather dropped her hand from the knob of the door and trailed back to the chair she had left, sinking into it helplessly. “Who—who will dress me?” she half wailed. “I don’t know, ma’am,” replied the young footman, his excellent manner presuming no suggestion or opinion whatever. He added however, “Cook, ma’am, wishes to speak to you.” “Tell her to come to me here,” Feather said. “And I—I want a cup of beef tea.” “Yes, ma’am,” with entire respect. And the door closed quietly behind him. It was not long before it was opened again. “Cook” had knocked and Feather had told her to come in. Most cooks are stout, but this one was not. She was a thin, tall woman with square shoulders and a square face somewhat reddened by constant proximity to fires. She had been trained at a cooking school. She carried a pile of small account books but she brought nothing else. “I wanted some beef tea, Cook,” said Feather protestingly. “There is no beef tea, ma’am,” said Cook. “There is neither beef, nor stock, nor Liebig in the house.” “Why—why not?” stammered Feather and she stammered because even her lack of perception saw something in the woman’s face which was new to her. It was a sort of finality. She held out the pile of small books. “Here are the books, ma’am,” was her explanation. “Perhaps as you don’t like to be troubled with such things, you don’t know how far behind they are. Nothing has been paid for months. It’s been an every-day fight to get the things that was wanted. It’s not an agreeable thing for a cook to have to struggle and plead. I’ve had to do it because I had my reputation to think of and I couldn’t send up rubbish when there was company.” Feather felt herself growing pale as she sat and stared at her. Cook drew near and laid one little book after another on the small table near her.