On returning home we found a telegram in the hall. It had been handed in at Paris, and ran as follows:
Cook called Camille François leaving for Cholmondeley Street to-morrow aaa can speak no English so must be met at Dover aaa boat due 4.15 aaa Jonah.
The train roared through Ashford, and Berry looked at his watch. Then he sighed profoundly and began to commune with himself in a low tone.
"Mille pardons, madame. Mais vous êtes Camille François? Non? Quel dommage! Dix mille pardons. Adieu. ... Deuce of a lot of 'milles,' aren't there? I wonder if there'll be many passengers. And will she come first-class, or before the mast? You know, this is a wild mare's chest, and that's all there is to it. We shall insult several hundred women, miss the cook, and probably lose Pauline into the bargain. What did I come for?"
"Nonsense," said Jill stoutly. "Jonah's told her to look out for us."
"I'll bet he never thought I should be fool enough to roll up, so she won't expect me. As a matter of fact, if he's described any one, he's probably drawn a lifelike word-picture of Daphne."
"It's no good worrying," said I. "The only thing to do is to address every woman who looks in the least like a cook as she steps off the gangway. When we do strike her, Jill can carry on."
"It's all very well," said Berry, "but what does a cook look like, or look least like, or least look like? I suppose you know what you mean." Jill began to shake with laughter. "She'll probably be all dressed up to give us a treat, and, for all we know, she may have a child with her, and, if she's pretty, it's a hundred to one some fellow will be seeing her off the boat. You can't rule out any one. And to accost strange women indiscriminately is simply asking for trouble. Understand this: when I've been knocked down twice, you can count me out."
This was too much for Jill, who made no further efforts to restrain her merriment. Fixing her with a sorrowful look, my brother-in-law sank back in his corner with a resigned air.