It was nearly twelve when my secretary reported to me on this particular morning, and he seemed a trifle hazy as to the results of the games. After he had mumbled something about rain or wet grounds, I coldly enquired:
"Mr. Poopendyke, are you employed by me or by that woman upstairs?" I would never have spoken of her as "that woman," believe me, if I had not been in a state of irritation.
He looked positively stunned. "Sir?" he gasped.
I did not repeat the question, but managed to demand rather fiercely: "Are you?"
"The countess had got dreadfully behind with her work, sir, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I helped her out a bit," he explained nervously.
"Work? What work?"
"Her diary, sir. She is keeping a diary."
"Indeed!"
"It is very interesting, Mr. Smart. Rather beats any novel I've read lately. We—we've brought it quite up to date. I wrote at least three pages about the dinner last night. If I am to believe what she puts into her diary, it must have been a delightful occasion, as the newspapers would say."
I was somewhat mollified. "What did she have to say about it, Fred?" I asked. It always pleased him to be called Fred.