As she had been for six years with the lady, and was only leaving because the latter was quitting England to join her husband in Ceylon, it was improbable that the reference would be unflattering.  Moreover, Daphne had taken to her at once.  Well-mannered, quiet, decently attired and respectful, she was obviously a long way superior to the ordinary maid.  Indeed, she had admitted that her father, now dead, had been a clergyman, and that she should have endeavoured to obtain a position as governess if, as a child, she had received anything better than the rudest education.  She had, she added, been receiving fifty pounds a year.  Hesitatingly she had inquired whether, since the employment was only temporary, we should consider an increase of ten pounds a year unreasonable.

“Altogether,” concluded my sister, “a thoroughly nice-feeling woman.  I offered her lunch, but she said she was anxious to try and see her sister before she caught her train back, so she didn’t have any.  I almost forgot to give her her fare, poor girl.  In fact, she had to remind me.  She apologized very humbly, but said the journey to London was so terribly expensive that she simply couldn’t afford to let it stand over.”

We had lunched at Ranelagh, and were sitting in a quiet corner of the pleasant grounds, taking our ease after the alarms and excursions of the day before.

Later on we made our way to the polo-ground.

Almost the first person we saw was Katharine Festival.

“Hurray,” said Daphne.  “I meant to have rung her up last night, but what with the Camille episode and dining out I forgot all about it.  When I tell her we’re suited, she’ll be green with envy.”

Her unsuspecting victim advanced beaming.  Being of the opposite sex, I felt sorry for her.

“Daphne, my dear,” she announced, “I meant to have rung you up last night.  I’ve got a cook.”

The pendulum of my emotions described the best part of a semicircle, and I felt sorry for Daphne.

“I am glad,” said my sister, with an audacity which took my breath away.  “How splendid!  So’ve we.”

“Hurray,” said Katharine, with a sincerity which would have deceived a diplomat.  “Don’t you feel quite strange?  I can hardly believe it’s really happened.  Mine rejoices in the name of Pauline,” she added.

I started violently, and Berry’s jaw dropped.

“Pauline?” cried Daphne and Jill.

“Yes,” said Katharine.  “It’s a queer name for a cook, but——­What’s the matter?”

“But so’s ours!  Ours is Pauline!  What’s her other name?”

“Roper,” cried Katharine breathlessly.

“Not from Torquay?”—­in a choking voice.

Katharine nodded and put a trembling handkerchief to her lips.

“I paid her fare,” she said faintly.  “It came to——­”

“Two pounds nine and four pence halfpenny,” said my sister.  “I gave her two pounds ten.”