Distracted, Sir Samuel looked piteously at me, and I sprang to the rescue.  I assured her ladyship that everything should be made nice for her before she quite knew what had happened.  If she would have patience for five minutes, only five, she should have everything she wanted.  I would see to it myself.  With that I ran away, followed by Sir Samuel’s grateful eyes.  But, once downstairs, I realized what a task I had set myself.

The whole establishment had gone mad over us.  There had been enough to do before, with the house full of ces messieurs, les commis voyageurs, but it was comparatively simple to do for them.  For la noblesse Anglaise it was different.

There were no men to be seen, and the three or four women of the household were scuttling about crazily in the kitchen, like hens with their heads cut off.  The patronage was so illustrious and so large; there was so much to do and all at once, therefore nobody tried to do anything but cackle and plump against one another.

Enter Me, a whirlwind, demanding an immediate fire and hot water for washing.  Landlady and assistants were aghast.  There had never been anything in any bedroom fireplace of the inn less innocent than paper flowers; bedroom fireplaces were for paper flowers; while as for washing it was a betise to want to do so in the evening, especially with hot water, which was a madness at any time, unless by doctor’s orders.  Besides, did not mademoiselle see that everybody had more than they could do already, in preparing dinner for the great people!  There was plenty of time to put the bedroom in order when it should be bedtime.  If the noble lady were so fatigued that she must lie down, why, the bed had only been slept in for one night by two particularly sympathetic messieurs.  It would be presque un crime to change linen after so brief an episode, nevertheless for a client of such importance it should eventually be done.

For a moment I was dashed by this volume of eloquence, but not for long, for I was pledged.  A wild glance round the kitchen showed me a kettle standing empty in a corner.  I seized it, and though it was heavy, swung it to an open door near which I could see a ghostly pump.  I flew out, and seized that ghost by its long and rigid arm.

“Let me,” said a voice.

It was the voice of Mr. Jack Dane.

CHAPTER XXII

“You dear!” I thought.  But I only said, “How sweet of you!” in a nice, ladylike tone.  And while he pumped the wettest and coldest water I ever felt, he drily advised me to call him “Adversity” if I found his “uses sweet,” since he wasn’t to be Jack for me.  What if he had known that I always call him “Jack” to myself?