shall have it for tyin' my necktie. Now, don't you call that 'kind'?"
I stopped folding the blouse, and increased my height by at least an inch. "No," I said, "I call it impertinent, and I shall be obliged if you will leave Lady Turnour's room. That 's the only thing you can do for me."
"By Jove!" said Bertie. "What theatre were you at before you took to lady's maidin'?"
To this I deigned no answer.
"Anyhow, you 're a rippin' little actress."
Silence.
"And a pretty girl. As pretty as they make 'em."
I invented a new kind of sigh, a cross between a snarl and a moan.
"Tell me, what's the mystery? There is a mystery about you, you know. Not a bit of good tryin' to deceive me. . . . You might as well own up. I can keep a secret as well as the next one."
A tapping of my foot. A slamming of a wardrobe door, which was able to squeak furiously without loss of dignity.
"What were you before my lady took you on? . . . Look here, if you don't answer, I shall begin to think the secret 's got to do with those." And he pointed to the dressing table, where the jewels still lay. He even put out his hand and took up the bursting sun. (How I sympathized with it for bursting!) "Worth somethin'—what?"
"You can think whatever you like," I flashed at him, "if only you 'll go out of this room."
"Pity your chauffeur isn't at hand for you to run
