These were a fine set of flats, with carpeted stairs, imposing hall, and gorgeously liveried attendants. He asked to be shown to Mrs. Cavendish Foote’s address. It was No. 20 on the third floor. The door was opened by a smart maid with a very small cap, an immensely frizzled head, and sallow cheeks.
“To see Mrs. Cavendish Foote on business?” she repeated, and ushered him into the tiny hall, which was decorated with a curious assortment of pictures, stuffed heads, arms, and looking-glasses.
“Oh, bring him in here,” commanded a shrill treble voice, and Wynyard found himself entering a large sitting-room, where he was saluted by an overwhelming perfume of scent, and the angry barking of a tiny black Pom. with a pink bow in his hair.
The apartment had been recently decorated; the prevailing colours were white and pink—white walls, into which large mirrors had been introduced—pink curtains, pink carpets, pink and white chintz. Two or three half-dead bouquets stood in vases, an opera cloak and a feather boa encumbered one chair, a motor coat another, several papers and letters were strewn upon the floor, and on a long lounge under the windows, a lady—white and pink to match her room—lay extended at full length, her shapely legs crossed, and a cigarette in her mouth. She wore a loose pink negligé—the wide sleeves exhibiting her arms bare to the shoulder.
“Hullo!” she exclaimed, when she caught sight of Wynyard, as he emerged from behind the screen.
“Mrs. Cavendish Foote, I presume?” he inquired.
“Right-o!” she answered, suddenly assuming a sitting posture; “and who may you be?”
“I’ve come about the situation as chauffeur.”
“The chauffeur!” she screamed. “Good Lord! why, I’m blessed if you ain’t a toff!”
“Is that a drawback?” he asked gravely.