her eyes, "you, for
all your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen to
have a hobby for housework. I have not been crying."

"Then please mount this to him at once," said Melisande, holding out the
letter. "It is from Miss Dobson's part. Very express. I wait response."

"You are very ugly," Katie signalled with her eyes. "I am very pretty.
I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano." With her lips
she said merely, "His Grace is not called before nine o'clock."

"But to-day you go wake him now--quick--is it not?"

"Quite out of the question," said Katie. "If you care to leave
that letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace's
breakfast-table, with the morning's post." "For the rest," added her
eyes, "Down with France!"

"I find you droll, but droll, my little one!" cried Melisande.

Katie stepped back and shut the door in her face. "Like a little
Empress," the Emperors commented.

The Frenchwoman threw up her hands and apostrophised heaven. To this day
she believes that all the bonnes of Oxford are mad, but mad, and of a
madness.

She stared at the door, at the pail and scrubbing-brush that had been
shut out with her, at the letter in her hand. She decided that she had
better drop the letter into the slit in the door and make report to Miss
Dobson.

As the envelope fell through the slit to the door-mat, Katie made at
Melisande a grimace which, had not the panels been opaque, would have
astonished the Emperors. Resuming her dignity, she picked the thing up,
and, at arm's length, examined it. It was inscribed in pencil. Katie's
lips curled at sight of the large, audacious handwriting. But it is
probable that whatever kind of handwriting Zuleika might have had would
have been just the kind that Katie would have expected.

Fingering the envelope, she wondered what the wretched woman had to
say. It occurred to her that the kettle was simmering on the hob in the
kitchen, and that she might easily steam open the envelope and master
its contents. However, her doing this would have in no way affected
the course of the tragedy. And so the gods (being to-day in a strictly
artistic mood) prompted her to mind her own business.

Laying the Duke's table for breakfast, she made as usual a neat
rectangular pile of the letters that had come for him by post. Zuleika's
letter she threw down askew. That luxury she allowed herself.

And he, when he saw the letter, allowed himself the