‘Madame is going?’ she asked coldly, holding open the door.
‘No, madame,’ I said. ‘Are you the femme de ménage of monsieur?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Monsieur is ill,’ I said, deciding swiftly what to do. ‘He does not wish to be disturbed. He would like you to return at two o’clock.’
Long before two I should have departed.
‘Monsieur knows well that I have another ménage from twelve to two,’ protested the woman.
‘Three o’clock, then,’ I said.
Bien, madame,’ said she, and, producing the contents of a reticule: ‘Here are the bread, the butter, the milk, and the newspaper, madame.’
‘Thank you, madame.’
I took the things, and she left, and I shut the door and bolted it.