The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged into the room.
“Here’s a nice affair,” she screamed, “a strike of household servants without a moment’s warning, and I’m left like this! I can’t appear in public in this condition.”
After a very hasty scrutiny Sophie assured her that she could not.
“Have they all struck?” she asked her maid.
“Not the kitchen staff,” said Richardson, “they belong to a different union.”
“Dinner at least will be assured,” said Sophie, “that is something to be thankful for.”
“Dinner!” snorted Catherine, “what on earth is the good of dinner when none of us will be able to appear at it? Look at your hair—and look at me! or rather, don’t.”
“I know it’s difficult to manage without a maid; can’t your husband be any help to you?” asked Sophie despairingly.
“Henry? He’s in worse case than any of us. His man is the only person who really understands that ridiculous new-fangled Turkish bath that he insists on taking with him everywhere.”
“Surely he could do without a Turkish bath for one evening,” said Sophie; “I can’t appear without hair, but a Turkish bath is a luxury.”