"Surely not going already? I thought you were at least staying to
lunch."

No; she had to get back to town. The car, ordered by Barbara, was
waiting to take her to the station.

"I'll see you into the train," said I.

"Oh, please don't trouble."

"I will trouble," I laughed, and I accompanied her down the slope to the
front door where stood Barbara by the car and Franklin with the luggage.
Doria and I drove to the station. For the few minutes before the train
came in we walked up and down the platform. She was in high spirits,
full of jest and laughter. An unwonted flush in her cheeks and a
brightness in her deep eyes rendered her perfectly captivating.

"I haven't seen you looking so well and so pretty for ever such a long
time," I said.

The flush deepened. "You and Barbara have done me all the good in the
world. You always do. Northlands is a sort of Fontaine de Jouvence for
weary people."

That was as graceful as could be. And when she shook hands with me a
short while afterwards through the carriage window, she thanked me for
our long-sufferance with more spontaneous cordiality than she had ever
before exhibited. I returned to my roses, feeling that, after all, we
had done something to help the poor little lady on her way. If I had
been a cat, I should have purred. After an hour or so, Barbara summoned
me from my contemplative occupation.

"Yes, dear?" said I, at the library window.

"Have you written to Rogers?"

Rogers was a plumber.

"He's a degraded wretch," said I, "and unworthy of receiving a letter
from a clean-minded man."

"Meanwhile," said Barbara, "the servants' bathroom continues to be
unusable."

"Good God!" said I, "does Rogers hold the cleanliness of this household
in his awful hands?"

"He does."

"Then I will sink my pride and write to him."

"Write now," said Barbara, leading me to my chair. "You ought to have
done it three days ago."

So with three days' bathlessness of my domestic staff upon my
conscience, and with Barbara at my elbow, I wrote my summons. I turned
in my chair, holding it up in my hand.

"Is this sufficiently dignified and imperious?"

I began to declaim it. "Sir, it has been brought to my notice that the
pipes--". I broke off short. "Hullo!" said I, my eyes on the wall, "what
has become of the key of Jaffery's flat?"

There was the brass-headed nail on which I had hung it, impertinently
and nakedly bright. The labelled key had vanished.

"You've go