For the space of two seconds the chef held it cupped in his mouth.  Then with an expression of deadly loathing, intensified by a horrible squint, he expelled the liquid on to the kitchen floor.  Ignoring the gasp which greeted his action, he was observed to shrug his shoulders.

“I veep my eyes,” he announced, “for ze pore pig.”

Here the steady flood of the butler’s narrative became excusably broken into the incoherence of rapids and the decent reticence of disappearing falls.  Beyond the fact that Mrs. Chapel had swung twice to the jaw, and that Camille had replied with an ineffectual kick before they were dragged screaming apart, few details of the state of pandemonium that ensued came to our ears.  I imagine that a striking tableau vivant somewhat on the lines of Meissonier’s famous painting was unconsciously improvised.  That three maids hardly restrained Mrs. Chapel, that the footman who sought to withhold Camille was bitten for his pains by the now ravening Frenchman, that the latter was only saved from the commission of a still more aggravated assault by the timely arrival of the butler, that Nobby, attracted by the uproar, contributed to the confusion first by barking like a demoniac and then by inflicting a punctured wound upon the calf of the alien’s leg, we learned more by inference and deduction than by direct report.  That our impending meal would be more than usually unappetizing was never suggested.  That was surmise upon our part, pure and simple.  The conviction, however, was so strong that the repast was cancelled out of hand.

Mrs. Chapel was dismissed and straitly charged never to return.  Camille was placed in the custody of the chauffeur and escorted to the latter’s rooms above the garage, to be returned to France upon the following morning.  Nobby was commended for his discrimination.  Jonah was reviled.

All this, however, took time.  The respective dismissal and disposal of the combatants were not completed until long past eight, and it was almost nine before we sat down to dinner.

“I think,” said Daphne faintly, “I should like some champagne.”

Berry ordered the wine.

It was abnormally hot, and the doors that were usually closed were set wide open.

From the street faint snatches of a vibrant soprano came knocking at our tired ears.

Mechanically we listened.

“When you come to the end of a perfect day...."

Berry turned to me.

“They must have seen us come in,” he said.

* * * * *

It was with a grateful heart that I telegraphed the first thing on Saturday morning to Mrs. Hamilton Smythe of Fair Lawns, Torquay, asking pro forma, whether Pauline Roper, now in her service, was sober, honest and generally to be recommended to be engaged as cook.