"You were going to pinch her--by instalments, I suppose," he
said. "You inferred that it might last three days. When she said
you would--in the drawing-room--it occurred to me to look into it.
What are your wages?"
"Thirty pounds a year, my lord."
"Go tomorrow morning to Benby, who engaged you for Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.
He will be at his office by nine and will pay you what is owed to
you--and a month's wages in lieu of notice."
"The mistress--" began Andrews.
"I have spoken to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." It was a lie, serenely
told. Feather was doing a new skirt dance in the drawing-room.
"She is engaged. Pack your box. Jennings will call a cab."
It was the utter idiotic hopelessness of saying anything to
him which finished her. You might as well talk to a front door or
a street lamp. Any silly thing you might try wouldn't even reach
his ears. He had no ears for you. You didn't matter enough.
"Shall I leave her here--as she is?" she said, denoting Robin.
"Undress her and put her to bed before you pack your box," absolutely
certain, fine cold modulations in the voice, which stood for his
special plane of breeding, had their effect on her grovelling
though raging soul. He was so exactly what he was and what she
was not and could never attain. "I will stay here while you do
it. Then go."
No vocabulary of the Servants' Hall could have encompassed the fine
phrase grand seigneur, but, when Mrs.
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