He blended bourbon, applejack, vermouth and bitters, skilfully and with the zeal of an artist, while he waited for her, remembering the old lady whom he had seen so often in that room. Also, he remembered the affectionate service that Jacqueline had always lavished on her, cheerfully limiting her own enjoyment of life to meet the demands of an unconscious tyrant who would allow no one else to look after her, and wondered if there was any realistic reason to regret the ending of such a long life. She had, he knew, looked after Jacqueline herself in her time, and had brought her up as her own child since she was left an orphan at the age of three; but life must always belong to the young… He thought that for Jacqueline it must be a supreme escape, but he knew that she would never say so.
She came down punctually in the five minutes which she had promised. She had changed her dress and put a comb through her hair, and with that seemed to have achieved more than any other woman could have shown for an hour's fiddling in front of a mirror.-
"You should have been in pictures," said the Saint, and he meant it.
"Maybe I shall," she said. "I'll have to do something to earn a living now."
"Is it as bad as that?"
She nodded.
"But I can't complain. I never had to work for anything before. Why shouldn't I start? Other people have to."
"Is that why you're moving out?"
"The house isn't mine."
"But didn't the old girl leave you anything?"