“I almost think so too, my Lady,” muttered he, with a half-dogged look.
“And be sure, Spicer, that we have that cook—Antoine—if we should want him. Don't let him take a place till we decide where we shall stop.”
“You are aware that he insists on a hundred and fifty francs a month, and his wine.”
“I should like to know what good you are, if I am to negotiate with these creatures myself!” said she, haughtily. “I must say, Lady Grace will suspect that I have rather overrated your little talents, Spicer.” And Lady Grace gave a smile that might mean any amount of approval or depreciation required. “I shall not want that saddle now, and you must make that man take it back again.”
“But I fear, my Lady——”
“There, don't be tiresome! What is that odious bell? Oh, it's the dinner of these creatures. You dine at the table d'hôte, I think, so pray don't let us keep you. You can drop in to-morrow. Let me see, about two, or half-past. Good-by—good-by.”
And so Mr. Spicer retired. The bow Lady Grace vouchsafed being in reality addressed rather to one of the figures on her fan than to himself.
“One gets a habit of these kind of people,” said Lady Lackington, as the door closed after him; “but really it is a bad habit.”
“I think so too,” said Lady Grace, languidly.
“To be sure, there are now and then occasions when you can't employ exactly a servant. There are petty negotiations which require a certain delicacy of treatment, and there, they are useful. Besides,” said she, with a half-sneering laugh, “there's a fashion in them, and, like Blenheim spaniels, every one must have one, and the smaller the better!”