“The housekeeper!” breathed Mr. Linton faintly. “Do you feel equal to her, Norah?” He fled, with disgraceful weakness, to the billiard-room.
“Good morning,” Norah said, advancing.
“Good morning,” returned the newcomer, with severity. “I have rung three times.”
“Oh—we’re a little shorthanded,” said Norah, and began to giggle hopelessly, to her own dismay. Her world seemed suddenly full of important upper servants, with no one to wait on them. It was rather terrible, but beyond doubt it was very funny—to an Australian mind.
The housekeeper gazed at her with a sort of cold anger.
“I’m afraid I don’t know which is your room,” Norah said, recovering under that fish-like glare. “You see, we’ve only just come. I’ll send Allenby.” She hurried off, meeting the butler in the passage.
“Oh, Allenby,” she said; “it’s the housekeeper. And her trunk. Allenby, what does a housekeeper do? She won’t clean the kitchen for Miss de Lisle, will she?”
“I’m afraid not, miss,” said Allenby. His manner grew confidential; had he not been so correct a butler, Norah felt that he might have patted her head. “Now look, miss,” he said. “You just leave them women to me; I’ll fix them. And don’t you worry.”
“Oh, thank you, Allenby,” said Norah gratefully. She followed in her father’s wake, leaving the butler to advance upon the wrathful figure that yet blocked the side doorway.
In the billiard-room all her men-folk were gathered, looking guilty.