"Damn it!" I cried, desperately. "Why didn't Jenkins stay here? She--he'll never get dressed!"
"Where is Jenkins, madame?" asked Suzanne, nervously. "Monsieur seems to be excited. And madame--what is the matter with madame?"
The girl's consternation was not strange. Caroline, the grand dame, gentle, self-poised, unexcitable, sat before the wide-eyed Suzanne, swearing in a voice that had been fashioned by nature for nothing harsher than a drawing-room expletive.
"Caroline," came my wife's borrowed voice, faintly, as if she were talking to herself. It was some time before I realized that she was calling me.
"Yes--ah--Reginald!" I managed to cry, in a trembling falsetto.
"Monsieur seems to want you, madame," said Suzanne, wonderingly. "Where is Jenkins, madame?"
"God only knows!" I exclaimed, desperately. "Down-stairs, I suppose, talking through his hat. Send him to me at once, girl."
"Madame! Jenkins? Send Jenkins to you? Madame, I do not comprehend."
"To me? I didn't say to me, did I? Send him to Car--Reginald--Mr. Stevens! Wasn't that what I said? Go, Suzanne! And--wait a minute. If you mention my name to Jenkins--that is, if you gossip with him coming up-stairs, I'll dismiss you this morning. Tell Jenkins to hold his chattering tongue, or he'll get the grand--ah, manner nayst pah?"
Suzanne burst into tears, and, instead of obeying my behest, fell, with true French impetuosity, upon her knees at my feet, and, seizing my cold hands, buried her face in them, sobbing hysterically.