“What am I to tell my husband?”
“Say that Finette begged a thousand pardons, wept, tore her hair, refused to be comforted until you promised to forgive her and try her again.”
Mrs. de Vere could not repress a slight smile at the cool impudence of the creature.
“Stay, then, and try to hold your tongue in future,” she said, ungraciously, and Finette pretended the most abject gratitude, ending with:
“After all, dear madame, what could you do without your poor Finette? Who could dress you so as to set off to the best advantage your exquisite face?”
Mrs. de Vere knew that Finette spoke the truth. If she had sent her away she would have sorely missed her, but she was too angry and too humiliated to own her dependence. She waved her hand without reply, and swept down-stairs in search of her husband.
He was waiting for her in the breakfast-room. She went up to him and said:
“I find it impossible to get rid of that treacherous Finette. She has begged a thousand pardons, and entreated me to try her again. After all, Norman, I could not do any better if I sent her away. Another servant would be just as deceitful, and would not have the advantage that Finette has of knowing all my ways.”
“Please yourself,” he answered, a little coldly.