At the top of the stairs she turned and addressed Mornice. “You may as well be warned. The ’andle of the water-jug in your room is only stuck on with fish-glue, so you’d better lift by the sides when you’re pouring out. Three people ’ave paid for that ’andle already.” “Thanks awfully,” said Mornie, trying not to laugh. “Thought I’d tell you. Not but what you’re sure to forget; then you’ll make the fourth.” And with this melancholy foreboding Emma descended toward the kitchen. Emma’s cooking of the chops was of more attractive quality than her conversational manner of introducing them. She further supplemented the meal with a sweet omelette, expressing a doubt, while serving it, that the price of the eggs used would probably “put them in a state” when they had to settle the bill. Mornice was enchanted with Emma, and gave a graphic performance of her voice and manner for Eliphalet’s after-dinner delectation. “She’s lovely,” declared Mornice; “and I only hope Mrs. ‘Montblancmangy’ will be half as funny.” The lady in question did not arrive home until after Mornice had set out to meet Ronald Knight. It was about five-thirty when Eliphalet heard the click of a key in the front door and the sound of footsteps in the passage. Apparently, the owner of the house was a clumsy person, for a great rattling betokened a collision with the umbrella-stand. There followed the noise of objects falling, and Eliphalet undertook to surmise that the three plush-backed clothes-brushes had been flung from their brass hooks to the floor. A certain amount of scuffling ensued, and then a female voice, speaking in detached tones, said: “Dash the things! Let ’em lie!” Acting on this resolution, the footsteps continued their way down the passage, and a door at the far end banged. “H’m!” said Eliphalet Cardomay. Emma came from the kitchen and entered her mistress’s parlour. Mrs. Montmorency was seated in a wicker chair, and her head moved from side to side in a rhythmic measure. On the floor beside her lay various belongings—a bag, an umbrella and a pair of gloves. Upon her lap was a large brown-paper parcel, suggestive of the wine merchant, and this she grasped securely by a small leather handle. She was a largely-built woman on the wrong side of fifty, and the clothes she wore would have befitted better a less advanced age. Large plaques of jewellery shone from her expansive bosom and implicated themselves in the lace and trimmings of her blouse. Across her shoulders was a fur cape, which, in conversational periods, she styled as “My mink.” An elaborate hat, at the moment somewhat awry, reposed upon her butter-coloured hair—hair dressed _à la pompadour_. Her face was a fine shade of purple, the intensity of which had been somewhat toned down by a liberal application of powder. “I’ve let the rooms,” remarked Emma. “Theatricals—an old chap and ’is daughter.”