CHAPTER V

When I was dismissed from the Presence, I ran to Lady Kilmarny with my story, and she agreed with me that the thing to dread most in the whole situation was the chauffeur.

“Of course he’ll naturally consider himself on an equality with you,” she said, “and you’ll have to eat with him at hotels, and all that.  Once, when my husband and I were touring in France, and used to break down near little inns, we were obliged to have a chauffeur at the same table with us, because there was only one long one (table, I mean, not chauffeur) and we couldn’t spare time to let him wait till we’d finished.  My dear, it was ghastly!  You would never believe if you hadn’t seen it, how the creature swallowed his knife when he ate, and did conjuring tricks with his fork and spoon.  I simply dared not look at him gnawing his bread, but used to shut my eyes.  I hate to distress you, poor child, but I tell you these things as a warning. Are you able to bear it?”

I said that I, too, could shut my eyes.

“You can’t make a habit of doing so.  And he may want to put his arm round your waist, or chuck you under the chin.  I used to have complaints from my maid, who was comparatively plain, while you—­but I don’t want to frighten you.  He may be different from our man.  Some, they say, are most respectable.  I love common people when they’re nice, and give up quite pleasantly to being common; and of course Irish ones are too delightful.  But you can’t hope for an Irish chauffeur.  I hear they don’t exist.  They’re all French or German or English.  Let us hope this one may be the father of a family.”

It was well enough to be told to hope; and Lady Kilmarny meant to be kind, but what she said made me “creep” whenever I thought of the chauffeur.

She advised me not to take my meals with the maids and valets at the Majestic Palace, because a change, so sudden and Cinderella-like, after lunching in the restaurant, would cause disagreeable talk in the hotel.  As my living in future would be at the charge of the Turnours, I might afford myself a few indulgences to begin with, she argued; and deciding that she was right, I made up my mind to have my remaining meals served in my own room.

I hastily stripped a black frock of its trimming, dressed my hair more simply even than usual, parted down the middle, and altogether strove to achieve the air of a femme de chambre born, not made.  But I’m bound to chronicle the fact for my own future reference (when some day I shall laugh at this adventure) that the effect, though restful to the eye, suggested the stage femme de chambre rather than the sober reality one sees in every-day life.  However, I was conscious of having done my best, a state of mind which always produces a cool, strawberries-and-cream feeling in the soul; and thus supported I tripped (yes, I did trip!) downstairs to adorn Lady Turnour for dinner.