How?”
Margot told her.
“I was going to be a secretary. I answered an advertisement. And he said to send my photograph, so I sent a little snapshot M’amselle took. I’ve never really had my photograph taken you know—Papa wouldn’t let me because of its getting into the papers. And the man said I’d do splendidly, and I was going there today.”
Margaret heaved a sigh of relief.
“Then you’ve got work to go to.”
“No, I haven’t—not now.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Oh!” said Margot. “He was a beast. Shall I tell you about it?”
“I think you’d better.”
Where shall I begin? Shall I begin with Egbert?”
“Who is Egbert?”
“Well, he is my cousin, and he said he wanted to marry me. And then I hid behind the sofa, and I heard him planning awful things about removing me.”
This was what she had said last night. Margaret tried to disentangle it.
“What made you hide behind the sofa?”
Margot giggled.
“Egbert said it would be a frightfully good thing for me if I married him, and I said I’d rather marry an organ-grinder, and I banged out of the room and went and posted my letter to Stephanie. And when I came back I wanted my book which I’d left in the drawing-room, and I just opened the door to see if Egbert was there. And he was. He was standing on a chair looking at one of those frightful pictures of Papa’s which are supposed to be worth such a lot of money—you know, Lely, and Rubens, and Turner, and all that lot—only Egbert says some of them aren’t—not really. He says Papa got taken in over them.”
Turner—Lely—Reubens.
Margaret said, “Go on.”
“Well, Egbert was standing on a chair, so I didn’t think he’d see me; but he got down, and I had to hide. And then he rang the bell.”
“Well?”
“It was William’s bell. He’s new since last time I was home. He’s the stupidest footman we’ve ever had.”
“Well? What about it?”
Margot leaned forward. She looked frightened.
“Egbert rang the bell, and someone came—but it couldn’t have been William, because Egbert told him all about proposing to me, and he said he expected I should have to be removed.” She shivered and caught at Margaret’s dress. “Margaret, what do you think he meant?”
“I don’t know. You’re not making this up?”
Margot giggled.
“I can’t make things up—I’m not a bit good at it. But I’m quite good at remembering. Even M’amselle said I was good at that. I can tell you every word they said if you like.”
Encouraged by a nod, Margot proceeded to repeat the conversation which she had overheard.
“What do you think they meant?”
“I don’t know. Go on.”
“Well, I just packed my box and sent the other footman for a taxi. I thought I wouldn’t send William, and I thought I wouldn’t stay till to-day in case of anybody trying to remove me. It had a frightfully horrid sort of sound—it did really—so I thought I wouldn’t stay. And I thought Mr. Percy Smith might just as well let me come a day earlier, so I took a taxi—only I didn’t go straight to his house because I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“What did you do?”
Margot looked innocently pleased with herself.
“I told the man to go to Waterloo, and when he’d gone away, I took another taxi—to Mr. Percy Smith’s. And that took every bit of the money I had except a shilling. I’ve got the shilling still.”
“And what happened at Mr. Percy Smith’s?” said Margaret gravely.
Margot blushed scarlet.
“He was a beast.”
“You’d better tell me what happened.”
“He had a horrid face—a frightfully horrid face. And he said he was awfully pleased to see me. And he took me into a room, and he said now I must have a cocktail. And I said I’d rather not. And then he said a lot of other things, and I didn’t like them. Need I tell you the things he said?”
“No,” said Margaret.
“I don’t want to. I think he was a frightfully horrid sort of
Margot told her.
“I was going to be a secretary. I answered an advertisement. And he said to send my photograph, so I sent a little snapshot M’amselle took. I’ve never really had my photograph taken you know—Papa wouldn’t let me because of its getting into the papers. And the man said I’d do splendidly, and I was going there today.”
Margaret heaved a sigh of relief.
“Then you’ve got work to go to.”
“No, I haven’t—not now.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Oh!” said Margot. “He was a beast. Shall I tell you about it?”
“I think you’d better.”
Where shall I begin? Shall I begin with Egbert?”
“Who is Egbert?”
“Well, he is my cousin, and he said he wanted to marry me. And then I hid behind the sofa, and I heard him planning awful things about removing me.”
This was what she had said last night. Margaret tried to disentangle it.
“What made you hide behind the sofa?”
Margot giggled.
“Egbert said it would be a frightfully good thing for me if I married him, and I said I’d rather marry an organ-grinder, and I banged out of the room and went and posted my letter to Stephanie. And when I came back I wanted my book which I’d left in the drawing-room, and I just opened the door to see if Egbert was there. And he was. He was standing on a chair looking at one of those frightful pictures of Papa’s which are supposed to be worth such a lot of money—you know, Lely, and Rubens, and Turner, and all that lot—only Egbert says some of them aren’t—not really. He says Papa got taken in over them.”
Turner—Lely—Reubens.
Margaret said, “Go on.”
“Well, Egbert was standing on a chair, so I didn’t think he’d see me; but he got down, and I had to hide. And then he rang the bell.”
“Well?”
“It was William’s bell. He’s new since last time I was home. He’s the stupidest footman we’ve ever had.”
“Well? What about it?”
Margot leaned forward. She looked frightened.
“Egbert rang the bell, and someone came—but it couldn’t have been William, because Egbert told him all about proposing to me, and he said he expected I should have to be removed.” She shivered and caught at Margaret’s dress. “Margaret, what do you think he meant?”
“I don’t know. You’re not making this up?”
Margot giggled.
“I can’t make things up—I’m not a bit good at it. But I’m quite good at remembering. Even M’amselle said I was good at that. I can tell you every word they said if you like.”
Encouraged by a nod, Margot proceeded to repeat the conversation which she had overheard.
“What do you think they meant?”
“I don’t know. Go on.”
“Well, I just packed my box and sent the other footman for a taxi. I thought I wouldn’t send William, and I thought I wouldn’t stay till to-day in case of anybody trying to remove me. It had a frightfully horrid sort of sound—it did really—so I thought I wouldn’t stay. And I thought Mr. Percy Smith might just as well let me come a day earlier, so I took a taxi—only I didn’t go straight to his house because I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“What did you do?”
Margot looked innocently pleased with herself.
“I told the man to go to Waterloo, and when he’d gone away, I took another taxi—to Mr. Percy Smith’s. And that took every bit of the money I had except a shilling. I’ve got the shilling still.”
“And what happened at Mr. Percy Smith’s?” said Margaret gravely.
Margot blushed scarlet.
“He was a beast.”
“You’d better tell me what happened.”
“He had a horrid face—a frightfully horrid face. And he said he was awfully pleased to see me. And he took me into a room, and he said now I must have a cocktail. And I said I’d rather not. And then he said a lot of other things, and I didn’t like them. Need I tell you the things he said?”
“No,” said Margaret.
“I don’t want to. I think he was a frightfully horrid sort of
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