"I didn't think she was so beautiful," said Rosa.
An awful silence followed these words, the sort of silence that would fall upon a housekeeper's room if, supposing such a thing possible, some young under-footman were to contradict the butler. Sergeant-Major Flannery's eyes bulged, and he drank coffee in a marked manner.
"Don't you talk nonsense, my girl," he said shortly.
"A girl can speak, can't she? A girl can make a remark, can't she?"
"Certainly she can speak," replied Mr. Flannery. "Undoubtedly she can make a remark. But," he added with quiet severity, "let it be sense. That young lady was the most beautiful young lady I've ever seen. She had eyes"—he paused for a telling simile—"eyes," he resumed devoutly, "like twin stars." He turned to Mrs. Evans, "When you've got that case's breakfast ready, ma'am, perhaps you would instruct someone to bring it out to me in the garden and I'll take it up to him. I shall be smoking my pipe in the shrubbery."
"You're not going already, Mr. Flannery?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But you haven't finished your breakfast."
"I have quite finished my breakfast, ma'am," said Sergeant-Major Flannery. "I would not wish to eat any more."
He withdrew. To the pleading in the eyes of Rosa he pointedly paid no attention. He was not aware of the destructive effect which the moustache nestling between his thumb and forefinger had wrought on the girl's heart, but he considered rightly that if you didn't keep women in their place occasionally, where were you? Rosa was a nice little thing, but nice little things must not be allowed to speak lightly of goddesses.