Eve being turned out of Paradise, by the Angel with
the Flaming Sword," I said, to make things better; and perhaps it did,
for they both laughed this time, but it was very queer laughter. If
Heppie had heard _me_ laugh like that, she would have accused me of
hysterics. But it was good for Mr. Norman, and stopped his face from
falling. He stammered regrets and apologies and suggestions, and Mr.
Somerled seemed upset, too, though not excited, like Mr. Norman and me.
He went into the house to collect our belongings, and I _was_ thankful
not to meet Mrs. West. She kept out of our way, but one of the servants
helped Mr. Somerled, who has no man to look after him, and another, not
that horrid Moore, offered to help me, but I said, "No, thank you." I
knew she would make fun of my bundle to the others afterward. All the
maids have stick-out teeth in this house, as if they'd been engaged on
purpose, and somehow it makes them seem formidable, like having ogresses
to do your packing.

Fancy Mr. Somerled, in the midst of his worry, remembering that I might
want to give money to Mrs. West's servants! He doesn't seem the sort of
man who would think of little things like that, but I begin to see
already that it isn't easy to guess what he is like really, unless he
chooses to let one do so. As we were on the way to the house, he said to
me in a low tone, "Here's an installment of what I owe you for your
brooch," and quickly he slipped a lot of gold and silver into my hand,
making my fingers shut round the coins.

"But you haven't got the brooch yet," I whispered back.

"I'll trust you," he said, in an absent-minded way, as already his
thoughts had rushed off to something else. And no wonder!

I gave a ten-shilling piece to the maid, with a grand air which must
have impressed her, because she treated me almost respectfully after
that, and secretly smuggled down my ugly bundle to the front gate,
where, in a few minutes more, Mr. Somerled's big car came to fetch us
away. Some one must have been sent to fetch it, and there were a few
crumbs on the chauffeur's coat, which made me fancy he'd been called
away in the midst of his luncheon, poor man. He must have been
surprised, but he had that ineffable marble-statue look which I've
noticed on the faces of grand coachmen driving high-nosed old ladies in
glittering carriages through the streets of Carlisle. Heppie says that
the true test of a well-trained servant is to show no emotion in any