I told myself that she
was pretty sure already to have heard the truth about my disappearance.
Or, if even with her friends, Cousin Catherine clings to
conventionalities, and pretends that I'm visiting somewhere by her
consent, people are almost certain to scent a mystery, for mysteries are
popular. "If that duchess woman sees me, she'll write to Cousin
Catherine at once," I thought. "Or I wouldn't put it _past_ her to
telegraph!"

("Put it past" is an expression of Cousin Catherine's own, which I
always disliked; but it came in handy now.)

I tried to console myself, though, by reflecting that, if I were
careful, I ought to be able to avoid the duchess. The ways of great
ladies and little maids lie far apart in grand houses and--

"There is going to be a servants' ball to-morrow night," announced Lady
Turnour, while my thoughts struggled out of the slough of despond. "And
I want you to be the best dressed one there, for _my_ credit. We're all
going to look on, and some of the young gentlemen may dance. The
marquise and Miss Nelson say they mean to, too, but I should think they
are joking. _I_ may not be a French princess nor yet a marquise, but I
_am_ an English lady, and I must say I shouldn't care to dance with my
cook, or my chauffeur."

Her chauffeur would be at one with her there! But I could think of
nothing save myself in this crisis. "Oh, miladi, I _can't_ go to a
servants' ball!" I exclaimed.

She bridled. "Why not, I should like to know? Do you consider yourself
above it?"

"It isn't that," I faltered. (And it wasn't; it was that duchess!)
"But--but--" I searched for an excuse. "I haven't anything to wear."

"I will see to that," said my mistress, with relentless generosity. "I
intend to give you a dress, and as you have next to nothing to do
to-morrow, you can alter it in time. If you had any gratitude in you,
Elise, you'd be out of yourself with joy at the idea."

"Oh, I am out of myself, miladi," I moaned.

"Well, you might say 'Thank your ladyship,' then."

I said it.

"When you have unpacked the big luggage in the morning, I will give you
the dress. I have decided on it already. Sir Samuel doesn't like it on
me, so I don't mind parting with it; but it's very handsome, and cost me
a great deal of money when I was getting my trousseau. It is scarlet
satin trimmed with green beetle-wing passementerie, and gold fringe."

My one comfort, as I gasped out spasmodic thanks, was this: I would look