Lately I had been trusted with her treasures,
and felt the responsibility disagreeably, especially as my
mistress--when she remembered it--counted everything ostentatiously
over, after relieving me of my charge.
To-night I had just begun picking up the brooches, bracelets, diamond
stars, coronets and bursting suns which illuminated the dressing-table
firmament, when Bertie walked in again, through the door that he had
left ajar.
"I came back because my necktie's a failure," said he. "My man must be
in love, I should think. Probably with you! Anyhow, something's the
matter; his fingers are all thumbs. But you turned out my old governor
rippin'ly. You'll do me, won't you?"
As he spoke, he untied his cravat, and produced another.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know how to do _that_ kind of tie."
"What--what?" he stared. "It's just the same as the governor's--only a
little better. Come along, there's a dear." He had pushed the door to;
now he shut it.
I walked to the other end of the room, and began folding a blouse.
"You'd better give your valet another trial," I said.
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