I walked to the other end of the room, and began folding a blouse.  “You’d better give your valet another trial,” I said.  “I’m not a valet.  I’m Lady Turnour’s maid.”

“She’s in luck to get you.”

“I’m engaged to wait upon her.”

“You are stiff!  You do the governor’s tie.”

“Sir Samuel’s very kind to me.”

“Well, I’ll be kind, too.  I’d like nothing better.  I’ll be a lot kinder than he’d dare to be.  I say, I’ve got a present for you—­something rippin’, that you’ll like.  You can wear it at the ball to-night, but you’d better not tell anyone who gave it to you—­what?  You shall have it for tyin’ my necktie.  Now, don’t you call that ’kind’?”

I stopped folding the blouse, and increased my height by at least an inch.  “No,” I said, “I call it impertinent, and I shall be obliged if you will leave Lady Turnour’s room.  That’s the only thing you can do for me.”

“By Jove!” said Bertie.  “What theatre were you at before you took to lady’s maidin’?”

To this I deigned no answer.

“Anyhow, you’re a rippin’ little actress.”

Silence.

“And a pretty girl.  As pretty as they make ’em.”

I invented a new kind of sigh, a cross between a snarl and a moan.

“Tell me, what’s the mystery?  There is a mystery about you, you know.  Not a bit of good tryin’ to deceive me....  You might as well own up.  I can keep a secret as well as the next one.”

A tapping of my foot.  A slamming of a wardrobe door, which was able to squeak furiously without loss of dignity.

“What were you before my lady took you on?...  Look here, if you don’t answer, I shall begin to think the secret’s got to do with those.”  And he pointed to the dressing table, where the jewels still lay.  He even put out his hand and took up the bursting sun. (How I sympathized with it for bursting!) “Worth somethin’—­what?”

“You can think whatever you like,” I flashed at him, “if only you’ll go out of this room.”

“Pity your chauffeur isn’t at hand for you to run to,” Bertie half sneered, half laughed, for he was keeping his hateful, teasing good nature.  “And by the way, talkin’ of him, since you’re such a little prude, I’ll just warn you in a friendly way to look out for that chap.  You don’t know his history—­what?  I’m sure the governor doesn’t.”

“Sir Samuel knows he can drive, and that he’s a gentleman,” said I, with meaning emphasis.

“Well, I’ve warned you,” replied Bertie, injured.  “You may see which one of us is really your friend, before you’re out of this galley.  But if you want to be a good and happy little girl, you’d best be nice to me.  I shall find out all about you, you know.”

That was his exit speech; and the only way in which I could adequately express my opinion of it was to bang the door on his back.

* * * * *