"Do put in a few dainty gowns, dearest," she implores. "It would be such fun to show them off and astonish the natives. Say that hat from 'Louise,' in case you tea with the vicar's spouse, of whom I have often heard." Eleanor is too weary to object, and lets Giddy order Sarah hither and thither till the room is in a litter and her head in a whirl. "Go and fetch me Mrs. Roche's Roumanian jacket, the one from Liberty," says Giddy to Sarah. "I want to borrow it as a pattern. I am sure that nice little dressmaker at Twickenham could make me one exactly like it," turning to Eleanor, as Sarah quits the room. "You don't mind, dear?" "Oh, no." "Did I tell you I met Lady MacDonald yesterday, and she actually asked after you? I was quite surprised. She is in great trouble, poor thing, having lost her favourite maid--a regular right hand in the household. The woman had a very good figure, and has gone to the Empire, and gets L4 a week for standing in the front row of a ballet or chorus or something. Lady MacDonald feels sure she must have been in the trade before she entered her service. She gets that excellent pay because she just matches another girl, like a horse, you know. It must be vastly more entertaining than fastening Lady MacDonald's back hooks. The worst of it is she _will_ tell all the other servants about it, and make them envious. The scullery maid, who is short and broad, and stout, is fired to go, and dreams of nothing else." "I wonder the beautiful Lady MacDonald has time to trouble about the dreams of a menial," says Eleanor, with the touch of sarcasm that always accompanies any mention of Giddy's friend. Sarah returns, and the subject drops. "Is it not a pity Philip is dreadfully busy this week, or he was to have come with me to-day," continues Eleanor. "I doubt now if he will be able to get to Copthorne at all." "How like a husband to be busy when you want him. I am sure you are much too young and pretty to travel alone." "Shall we leave Sarah to finish the packing, and come down? I must have an early lunch." Giddy follows her to the dining-room. "I saw Carol Quinton yesterday," she says. "I told him you were going away, but was true to my word, and did not divulge the address." "I wish you had said nothing about my movements," replies Eleanor uneasily, starting at the sound of Carol's name. "I could not help it, he asked me all about you directly; he never talks of anything else, which seems rather absurd to another woman." "Yes, you must grow horribly tired of the subject."