"Hallo, Mrs. Blades!" Owen's voice made her turn round quickly. "The Ten Little Ladies going as strong as ever, I see!"
"Yes, Mr. Owen, they're still on the go." She regarded the lamps affectionately. "At first Mr. Leetham used to say a good big lamp would be best, at the head of the stairs; but afterwards he got to like the Little Ladies, and we've had 'em every night."
"We'll have to go on having them," declared Owen. "Look, Toni, they're really quite pretty, aren't they? And thanks to Mrs. Blades they give a jolly good light."
"But—the 'Little Ladies'?" Toni looked, as she felt, puzzled.
"Yes, it was a fancy of my father's. He would never have gas anywhere except in the kitchens; and the long gallery upstairs, where all the bedrooms are, was always as dark as Erebus." He laughed, catching sight of the blank look on Mrs. Blades' face at the word. "So my mother invented these lamps, years ago when I was a tiny kid, and every night they are fixed at intervals along the walls of the gallery."
"But the name?"
"Oh, I don't know who first christened them, but they've always been known as the Ten Little Ladies—and always will be, I suppose. Eh, Mrs. Blades?"
"So long as I'm here, sir, I hope they will be," rejoined Mrs. Blades somewhat formally; and something in her tone made Owen remember his resolve.
He looked round. The door was open into the passage, a rosy-cheeked maid waiting, apparently, to carry off the tray with the Little Ladies; but on Owen approaching with the intention of closing the door she withdrew modestly out of earshot.
Coming back to the table Owen took one of Toni's hands in his and turned to the old housekeeper, who glanced with sudden shrewdness at the girl's shy face.