Because of the pills
he had been made a Knight; at least, Lady Kilmarny didn't know any other
reason. He was Sir Samuel Turnour (evolved from Turner), just married
for the second time to a widow in whose head it was like the continual
frothing of new wine to be "her ladyship."
Lady Turnour had lately quarrelled with a maid and dismissed her, Lady
Kilmarny told me. Now, she was in immediate need of another, French
(because French maids are fashionable) able to speak English, because
the Turnour family had as yet mastered no other language. Lady Kilmarny
believed that this was the honeymoon of the newly married pair, and
that, after having paused on the wing at Cannes, for a little billing
and cooing, they intended to pursue their travels in France for some
weeks, before returning to settle down in England. "Her Ladyship" was
asking everybody with whom she had contrived to scrape acquaintance
(especially if they had titles) to recommend her a maid. Lady Kilmarny,
as a member of the League against Cruelty to Animals, had determined
that nothing would induce her to throw any poor mouse to this cat, even
if she heard of a mouse plying for hire; but here was I in a dreadful
scrape, professing myself ready to snap at anything except Corn
Plasters; and she felt bound to mention that the mousetrap was open, the
cheese waiting to be nibbled.
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