In a moment Mrs. Forbes, who was the great novelist’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the oracle’s lair. She was a sober-looking, black-silk personage, who always wore a pork-pie cap in the house, and a Mother Hubbard bonnet out of it. Having been in service with Mrs. Greyne ever since the latter penned her last minor poetry—Mrs. Greyne had been a minor poet for three years soon after she put her hair up—Mrs. Forbes had acquired a certain literary expression of countenance and a manner that was decidedly prosy. She read a good deal after her supper of an evening, and was wont to be the arbiter when any literary matter was discussed in the servants’ hall.
“Madam?” she said, respectfully entering the room, and bending the pork-pie cap forward in an attentive attitude.
Mrs. Greyne was silent for a moment. She appeared to be thinking deeply. Mrs. Forbes gently closed the door, and sighed. It was nearly her supper-time, and she felt pensive.
“Madam?” she said again.
Mrs. Greyne looked up. A strange fire burned in her large eyes.
“Mrs. Forbes,” she said at length, with weighty deliberation, “the mission of woman in the world is a great one.”
“Very true, madam. My own words to Butler Phillips no longer ago than dinner this midday.”
“It is the protecting of man—neither more nor less.”
“My own statement, madam, to Second Footman Archibald this self-same day at the tea-board.”
“Man needs guidance, and looks for it to us—or rather to me.”