order included in her house-party. She was broad-minded
enough to love the
sinner while hating the sin - not that
she entertained any warm feeling of personal affection
for the Duke of Syria, who was a
comparative stranger,
but still, as Duke of Syria, he was very, very welcome
beneath her roof. She could not have explained why, but
no one was likely to ask her for an
explanation, and most
hostesses envied her.
"You must
surpass yourself to-night, Richardson,"
she said complacently to her maid; "I must be looking my
very best. We must all
surpass ourselves."
The maid said nothing, but from the concentrated
look in her eyes and the deft play of her fingers it was
evident that she was beset with the
ambition to
surpassherself.
A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptory
knock, as of some one who would not be denied.
"Go and see who it is," said Sophie; "it may be
something about the wine."
Richardson held a
hurriedconference with an
invisible
messenger at the door; when she returned there
was
noticeable a curious listlessness in place of her
hitherto alert manner.
"What is it?" asked Sophie.
"The household servants have 'downed tools,'
madame," said Richardson.
"Downed tools!" exclaimed Sophie; "do you mean to
say they've gone on strike?"
"Yes, madame," said Richardson, adding the
information: "It's Gaspare that the trouble is about."
"Gaspare?" said Sophie wanderingly; "the emergency
chef! The omelette specialist!"
"Yes, madame. Before he became an omelette
specialist he was a valet, and he was one of the strike-
breakers in the great strike at Lord Grimford's two years
ago. As soon as the household staff here
learned that
you had engaged him they
resolved to `down tools' as a
protest. They haven't got any
grievance against you
personally, but they demand that Gaspare should be
immediately dismissed."
"But," protested Sophie, "he is the only man in
England who understands how to make a Byzantine omelette.
I engaged him
specially for the Duke of Syria's visit,
and it would be impossible to
replace him at short
notice. I should have to send to Paris, and the Duke
loves Byzantine omelettes. It was the one thing we
talked about coming from the station."
"He was one of the strike-breakers at Lord
Grimford's," reiterated Richardson.
"This is too awful," said Sophie; "a strike of
servants at a moment like this, with the Duke of Syria
staying in the house. Something must be done
immediately. Quick, finish my hair and I'll go and see
what I can do to bring them round."
"I can't finish your hair, madame," said Richardson
quietly, but with
immense decision. "I belong to the
union and I can't do another half-minute's work till the
strike is settled. I'm sorry to be disobliging."
"But this is inhuman!" exclaimed Sophie tragically;
"I've always been a model
mistress and I've refused to
employ any but union servants, and this is the result. I
can't finish my hair myself; I don't know how to. What
am I to do? It's wicked!"
"Wicked is the word," said Richardson; "I'm a good
Conservative and I've no
patience with this Socialist
foolery, asking your
pardon. It's
tyranny, that's what
it is, all along the line, but I've my living to make,
same as other people, and I've got to belong to the
union. I couldn't touch another hair-pin without a
strike permit, not if you was to double my wages."
The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged into
the room.
"Here's a nice affair," she screamed, "a strike of
household servants without a moment's
warning, and I'm