“Well,” remarked Lady Turnour, taken aback by this extraordinary plea, as well she might have been, “I don’t like to tell a person out and out that I don’t believe a word he says, but I do go as far as this:  I’ll believe you when I see you making the sketch.  And as for earning extra money, I should have thought Sir Samuel paid good enough wages for you to be willing to smoke a pipe and rest when your day’s work was done, instead of gadding about corridors gossiping with lady’s-maids who’ve no business to be outside their own room.  But if you’re so greedy after money—­and if you want me to take Elise’s word—­”

“I’ll just begin the sketch in your ladyship’s presence, if I may be excused,” said Mr. Dane, briskly.  And to my real surprise, as well as relief, he whipped a small canvas-covered sketch-book out of his pocket.  It was almost like sleight of hand, and if he’d continued the exhibition with a few live rabbits and an anaconda or two I couldn’t have been much more amazed.

“I’d like to have a look at that thing,” observed Lady Turnour, suspiciously, as in a business-like manner he proceeded to release a neatly sharpened pencil from an elastic strap.

Without a word or a guilty twitch of an eyelid he handed her the book, and we both stood watching while the fat, heavily ringed and rosily manicured fingers turned over the pages.

He could sketch, I soon saw, better than I can, though I’ve (more or less) made my living at it.  There were types of French peasants done in a few strokes, here and there a suggestion of a striking bit of mountain scenery, a quaint cottage, or a ruined castle.  Last of all there was a very good representation of the Aigle, loaded up with the Turnours’ smart luggage, and ready to start.  My lips twitched a little, despite the strain of the situation, as I noted the exaggerated size of the crest on the door panel.  It turned the whole thing into a caricature; but luckily her ladyship missed the point.  She even allowed her face to relax into a faint smile of pleasure.

“This isn’t bad,” she condescended to remark.

“I thought of asking your ladyship and Sir Samuel if there would be any objection to my sending that to a Society motoring paper, and labelling it ’Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour’s new sixty-horse-power Aigle on tour in Provence.’  Or, if you would prefer my not using your name, I—­”

“I see no reason why you should not use it,” her ladyship cut in hastily, “and I’m sure Sir Samuel won’t mind.  Make a little extra money in that way if you like, while we’re on the road, as you have this talent.”

She gave him back the book, quite graciously, and the chauffeur began sketching me.  In three minutes there I was—­the “abominable little flirt!” in hat and veil, with Lady Turnour’s bag in my hand, quite a neat figure of a motor maid.

“You may put, if you like, ‘Lady Turnour’s maid,’” said that young person’s mistress, “if you think it would give some personal interest to your sketch for the paper.”