to have heard the truth about my disappearance.  Or, if even with her friends, Cousin Catherine clings to conventionalities, and pretends that I’m visiting somewhere by her consent, people are almost certain to scent a mystery, for mysteries are popular.  “If that duchess woman sees me, she’ll write to Cousin Catherine at once,” I thought.  “Or I wouldn’t put it past her to telegraph!”

("Put it past” is an expression of Cousin Catherine’s own, which I always disliked; but it came in handy now.)

I tried to console myself, though, by reflecting that, if I were careful, I ought to be able to avoid the duchess.  The ways of great ladies and little maids lie far apart in grand houses and—­

“There is going to be a servants’ ball to-morrow night,” announced Lady Turnour, while my thoughts struggled out of the slough of despond.  “And I want you to be the best dressed one there, for my credit.  We’re all going to look on, and some of the young gentlemen may dance.  The marquise and Miss Nelson say they mean to, too, but I should think they are joking. I may not be a French princess nor yet a marquise, but I am an English lady, and I must say I shouldn’t care to dance with my cook, or my chauffeur.”

Her chauffeur would be at one with her there!  But I could think of nothing save myself in this crisis.  “Oh, miladi, I can’t go to a servants’ ball!” I exclaimed.

She bridled.  “Why not, I should like to know?  Do you consider yourself above it?”

“It isn’t that,” I faltered. (And it wasn’t; it was that duchess!) “But—­but—­” I searched for an excuse.  “I haven’t anything to wear.”

“I will see to that,” said my mistress, with relentless generosity.  “I intend to give you a dress, and as you have next to nothing to do to-morrow, you can alter it in time.  If you had any gratitude in you, Elise, you’d be out of yourself with joy at the idea.”

“Oh, I am out of myself, miladi,” I moaned.

“Well, you might say ‘Thank your ladyship,’ then.”

I said it.

“When you have unpacked the big luggage in the morning, I will give you the dress.  I have decided on it already.  Sir Samuel doesn’t like it on me, so I don’t mind parting with it; but it’s very handsome, and cost me a great deal of money when I was getting my trousseau.  It is scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wing passementerie, and gold fringe.”

My one comfort, as I gasped out spasmodic thanks, was this:  I would look such a vulgar horror in the scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wings and gold fringe, that the Duchesse de Melun might fail to recognize Lys d’Angely.

CHAPTER XXVII

I dusted and shook out every cell in my brain, during the night, in the hope of finding any inspiration which might save me from the servants’ ball; but I could think of nothing, except that I might suddenly come down with a contagious disease.  The objection to this scheme was that a doctor would no doubt be sent for, and would read my secret in my lack of temperature.