“A propos,” pursued Lord St. John, with a twinkle, “your handmaiden appears to me a quite just cause and impediment.”

“Oh, our ’Adagio’?” exclaimed Nan.  “We’ve long since ceased to expect much from her.  Did she keep you waiting on the doorstep long?”

“Only about ten minutes,” murmured St. John mildly.  “But seriously, why don’t you—­er—­give her warning?”

“My dear innocent uncle!” protested Nan amusedly.  “Don’t you know that that sort of thing isn’t done nowadays—­not in the best circles?”

“Besides,” added Penelope practically, “we should probably be only out of the frying pan into the fire.  The jewels in the domestic line are few and far between and certainly not to be purchased within our financial limits.  And frankly, there are very few jewels left at any price.  Most of the nice ones got married during the war—­the servants you loved and regarded as part of the family—­and nine-tenths of those that are left have no sense of even giving good work in return for their wages—­let alone civility!  The tradition of good service has gone.”

“Have you been having much bother, then?” asked St. John concernedly.  “You never used to have trouble with maids.”

“No.  But everyone has now.  You wouldn’t believe what they’re like!  I don’t think it’s in the least surprising so many women have nervous break-downs through nothing more nor less than domestic worry.  Why, the home-life of women these days is more like a daily battlefield than anything else!”

Penelope spoke strongly.  She had suffered considerably at the hands of various inefficient maids and this, added to the strain of her own professional work, had brought her at one time to the verge of a break-down in health.

“I’d no idea you were so strong on domestic matters, Penelope,” chaffed St. John, smiling across at her.

“I’m not.  But I’ve got common sense, and I can see that if the small wheels of the machine refuse to turn, the big wheels are bound to stick.”

“If only servants knew how much one liked and respected a really good maid!” murmured Nan with a recrudescence of idealism.

“Do wages make any difference?” ventured St. John somewhat timidly.  Penelope was rather forcible when the spirit moved her, and he was becoming conscious of the fact that he was a mere ignorant man.

“Of course they do—­to a certain extent,” she replied.

“Money makes a difference to most things, doesn’t it?”

“There are one or two things it can’t taint,” he answered quietly, but now you’ve really brought me to the very object of my visit.”

“I thought it was a desire to enquire after the health of your favourite niece,” hazarded Nan impertinently.

“So it was.  And as finance plays a most important part in that affair, the matter dovetails exactly!”

He smoked in silence for a moment.  Then he resumed: