’There is no necessity for you to feel like a cat—­or any other animal—­treading on plates hot or otherwise when unburdening yourself to me,’ I said kindly and benevolently, to put her at her ease.  As a matter of fact, I half surmised the cause of her embarrassment.  No doubt she had broken some object of value and wished me to act as intermediary with her mistress in the matter.  I have frequently heard Mrs. Warrington complain of her ever-recurring breakages.

‘If I can assist you in any way,’ I continued, ‘and intervene——­’

‘Inter-wot?’ said Elizabeth.

’Er—­perhaps you desire me to put in a good word for you with your mistress——­’

‘Do I not,’ she broke in.  ’I can put in all the good words I want meself—­yes, an’ a few more, too.’

I was pondering on the remarkable formation of this sentence which lent itself neither to analysis nor parsing, when her next words arrested my instant attention.

‘It’s about Miss Marryun I wanted to speak to you,’ she said.

I stared.  Why on earth should she speak to me about Miss Warrington, Henry’s sister?  I have not noticed her closely, but she is a quiet enough female, I believe, though possessed of an irritating habit of constantly pressing quite unnecessary ash-trays on a man.

To my surprise Elizabeth closed the door at this point and, coming up to me, whispered in a strange husky voice:  ’That’s just where all the trouble begins.  It’s what I overheerd ‘er sayin’ about you.’

I must confess to feeling rather startled.  Then I remembered Mrs. Warrington had often commented on Elizabeth’s curious proclivities for ‘overhearing.’  I looked at her coldly.  I had not the slightest intention of becoming her confidant.

‘Well, well, my good girl,’ I retorted briskly, ’listeners never hear any good of themselves—­or of other people either, I suppose.  So, if you please, we will drop the subject.’  I then picked up a book and held it before me to signify that the parley was at an end.

Elizabeth snorted.  The term is vulgar, I know, but no other expression is adequate.  ‘Oo was listenin’, I’d like to know?’ she asked.  ’I sed overheerd.  The door was well on the jar and I was dustin’ the ’all when I ‘ears Miss Marryun a-moanin’ and a-sobbin’ like.  Missus was talkin’ to ‘er and soothin’ ’er.  “Don’t carry on so,” she ses, “for I tells you, it’s no use.”

‘"No use,” ses Miss Marryun in a choked sort o’ voice, “why is it no use?  I love ’im, I adore ’im.  Oh, Willyum, Willyum, you’ll break my ‘art if you go on with this yeer cold indifference——­“’

‘Stop,’ I interposed sternly.  At any other time I might have smiled at the girl’s quaint phraseology.  But I did not smile just then. Dulce est desipere in loco.  Wild as the story sounded, it was making me feel decidedly uncomfortable.  A slight perspiration had broken out on my forehead.  But I threw a strong note of assurance into my voice as I went on:  ’Girl, this is a monstrous action on your part to listen—­er—­overhear at doors and repeat conversations of a most delicate nature to a third party.’