"If that duchess woman sees me, she'll write to Cousin
Catherine at once," I thought. "Or I wouldn't put it _past_ her to
telegraph!"
("Put it past" is an expression of Cousin Catherine's own, which I
always disliked; but it came in handy now.)
I tried to console myself, though, by reflecting that, if I were
careful, I ought to be able to avoid the duchess. The ways of great
ladies and little maids lie far apart in grand houses and--
"There is going to be a servants' ball to-morrow night," announced Lady
Turnour, while my thoughts struggled out of the slough of despond. "And
I want you to be the best dressed one there, for _my_ credit. We're all
going to look on, and some of the young gentlemen may dance. The
marquise and Miss Nelson say they mean to, too, but I should think they
are joking. _I_ may not be a French princess nor yet a marquise, but I
_am_ an English lady, and I must say I shouldn't care to dance with my
cook, or my chauffeur."
Her chauffeur would be at one with her there! But I could think of
nothing save myself in this crisis. "Oh, miladi, I _can't_ go to a
servants' ball!" I exclaimed.
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