There was no work in London.
Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come.
They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips.
As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place.
“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——”
“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.”
He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose.
Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer.
“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .”
“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——”