Once, she must have been handsome, a hollyhock queen of a
kitchen-garden kingdom; but she would be far more attractive now if only
she had "abdicated," as nice middle-aged women say in France.
Her dress was the very latest dream of a neurotic Parisian modiste, and
would have been seductive on a slender girl. On her--well, at least she
would have her wish in it--she would not pass unnoticed!
She looked surprised at sight of me, and I saw she didn't realize that I
was the expected candidate.
"Lady Kilmarny couldn't come," I began to explain, "and--"
"Oh!" she cut me short. "So you are the young person she is recommending
as a maid."
I corrected Miss Paget when she called me a "young woman," but times
have changed since then, and in future I must humbly consent to be a
young person, or even a creature.
For a minute I forgot, and almost sat down. It would have been the end
of me if I had! Luckily I remembered What I was, and stood before my
mistress, trying to look like Patience on a monument with butter in her
mouth which mustn't be allowed to melt.
"What is your name?" began the catechism (and the word was "nime,"
according to Lady Turnour).
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