“The duchess never does what is not agreeable to her, my lord.”
“She must leave it; and you must see that preparations are duly made, so that she cannot remain in it.”
Mr. Mason coughed slightly.
“My lord, I have heard that there are tenants in Ireland who will not go out till the thatch is set afire over their heads, and even then let themselves and their pigs be burnt rather than give up possession. I mean no disrespect, my lord, when I venture to say that my lady—I mean her Grace—is very much of that kind of temper, my lord.”
“I know she is,” said Hurstmanceaux. “That is why I speak to you on this matter. Go out of the house she must.”
“Of course I will do my best, my lord,” said Mason in a dubious tone; he knew if her Grace did not choose anything to be packed up nothing would be.
At that moment Cecile, the head maid, entered; she was a tall, supercilious, conceited-looking Swiss woman of forty.
“If you please, my lord,” she said, looking impudently in Ronald’s face, “her Grace would be glad to know when you mean to go out of the house, as her Grace is waiting to come downstairs.”
Hurstmanceaux turned his back on her.
“You have received my orders, Mason. The landlord resumes possession here on the last day of the month.”