“Not if I have anything to say about it,” murmured her ladyship.  “Scattering the poor thing’s teeth all over the place!”

“There are plenty of good chauffeurs to be got at short notice in Paris,” Jack suggested, “and you are certain to find one by the time you’re ready to start.”

“You’re right, Dane.  We’ll have to part company,” said Sir Samuel.  “As for Elise here—­”

“She’ll have to go too,” broke in her ladyship.  “It’s most inconvenient, and all your stepson’s fault—­though she’s far from blameless, in my humble opinion, whatever yours may be.  Don’t tell me that a young man will go about flirting with lady’s maids unless they encourage him!”

“I shall leave of course, immediately,” said I, my ears tingling.

“Who wants you to do anything else?  Though nobody cares for my convenience. I can always go to the wall.  But thank heaven there are maids in Paris as well as chauffeurs.  And talking of that combination, my advice to you is, if Dane’s willing to have you, don’t turn up your nose at him, but marry him as quickly as you can.  I suppose even in your class of life there’s such a thing as gossip.”

I was scarlet.  Somehow I got out of the room, and while I was scurrying my few belongings into my dressing bag, and spreading out the red satin frock to leave as a legacy to Lady Turnour (in any case, nothing could have induced me to wear it again), Sir Samuel sent me up an envelope containing a month’s wages, and something over.  I enclosed the “something over” in another envelope, with a grateful line of refusal, and sent it back.

Thus ends my experience as a motor maid!

* * * * *

What was going to become of me I didn’t know, but while I was jamming in hatpins and praying for ideas, there came a knock at the door.  A pencilled note from the late chauffeur, signed hastily, “Yours ever, J.D.,” and inviting me down to the couriers’ dining-room for a conference.  There would be no one there but ourselves at this hour, he said, and we should be able to talk over our plans in peace.

What a place to say farewell forever to the only man I ever had, could or would love—­a couriers’ dining room, with grease spots on the tablecloth!  However, there was no help for it, since I was facing the world with fifty francs, and could not afford to pay for a romantic background.

After all that had happened, and especially after certain impertinent references made to our private affairs, I felt a new and very embarrassing shyness in meeting the man with whom I’d been playing that pleasant little game called “brother and sister.”  He was waiting for me in the couriers’ room, which was even dingier and had more grease spots than I had fancied, and I hurried into speech to cover my nervousness.

“I don’t know how I’m going to thank you for all you’ve done for me,” I stammered.  “That horrible Bertie—­”