“Clear!” said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but cook cut short her retreat.
“Entrée, you said, Ma’am. What kind of entrée? And there’s lunch. And breakfast. To-morrow’s breakfast. Would it be bacon?”
Grizel waved an impatient hand.
“Bacon certainly. And er—omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual things one does have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish, please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We’ve discussed everything, I think.” She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered face. “And I’m sure,” she added daringly, “you’ll manage splendidly with dripping!”
In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a passage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin’s sanctum. Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole.
“Martin!”
A voice from within answered with would-be sternness:
“Go away!”
“Martin... I’m sorry! Just one moment... Something I must ask you.—Most important...”
“Go on, then... What is it?”