I, Lys d'Angely, am going to be a lady's-maid; or rather, I am going to
be the maid of an extremely rich person who calls herself a lidy.
It's perfectly awful, or awfully comic, according to the point of view,
and I swing from one to the other, pushed by my fastidiousness to my
sense of humour, and back again, in a way to make me giddy. But it's
settled. I'm going to do it. I had almost to drag the suggestion out of
Lady Kilmarny, who turned red and stammered as if I were the great lady,
she the poor young girl in want of a situation.
There was, said she, a quaint creature in the hotel (one met these
things abroad, and was obliged to be more or less civil to them) who
resembled Monsieur Charretier in that she was disgustingly rich. It was
not Corn Plasters. It was Liver Pills, the very same liver pills which
had dropped into the mind of Lady Kilmarny when I hesitated to put into
words the foundation of my _pretendant's_ future. It was the Liver Pills
which had eventually introduced into her brain the idea she falteringly
embodied for me.
The husband of the quaint creature had invented the pills, even as
Monsieur Charretier had invented his abomination.
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