Montrose, her brother’s valet, an unexpectedly, entirely unusual perfect servant, came along the Sahara bearing two plates of soup. It was the appointed dining hour for Lord Tawdry. Regardless of what he might do as to debts, he insisted on prompt feeding.
“Drop that soup,” said Verbeena sternly. “Your master isn’t staying to dinner and the soup will not stain the sand.
“Instead, Montrose,” continued Verbeena, “get out the fine comb, for this day finds your master with more sand than soup in his hanging gardens.
“Afterwards tie his shoes and put on his sunbonnet for Lord Tawdry is going day-day.”
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss.”
“Back to the Biscuit, you understand, Montrose.”
“Yes, miss; thank God, miss.”
“Verbeena!”
Again Lord Tawdry clutched his pistol.