It was a week or two later that the parlour-maid gave notice,
having been terrified almost to tears by an outbreak of sudden
temper on the part of the master anent some underdone cutlets.
"'E gnashed 'is teeth at me, 'e did reely," she informed a
sympathetic kitchen audience.
"I'd like to see 'im talk like that to me, I would," said the cook
defiantly, but her cooking from that moment showed a marked
improvement.
It was seldom that Groby Lington so far detached himself from his
accustomed habits as to go and form one of a house-party, and he
was not a little piqued that Mrs. Glenduff should have stowed him
away in the musty old Georgian wing of the house, in the next
room, moreover, to Leonard Spabbink, the eminent pianist.
"He plays Liszt like an angel," had been the hostess's
enthusiastic testimonial.
"He may play him like a trout for all I care," had been Groby's
mental comment, "but I wouldn't mind betting that he snores. He's
just the sort and shape that would. And if I hear him snoring
through those ridiculous thin-panelled walls, there'll be
trouble."
He did, and there was.
Groby stood it for about two and a quarter minutes, and then made
his way through the corridor into Spabbink's room.
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