"Hovey, were you here in my father's time?"
"I was under-parlourmaid, sir," she said.
"And you are housekeeper now—good!"
The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned away her head.
"I'd have given my right hand if he hadn't gone, sir."
Gaston whistled softly, then:
"So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good- night. Look after Brillon, please."
He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them nervously.
"Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It's—it's like him comin' back, sir."
Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to whom emotion was not graceful. "H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door. "Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'"