“Oh, ma’am, it’s terrible to think about!  I’m sure I can’t even guess!  Mr. Pyecroft, and all the others, and all these things happening—­I’m sure they’ll be the death of me, ma’am!”

Mrs. De Peyster sprang from her bed.  Despite Matilda’s cheap dressing-gown which she wore as appropriate to her station, she made a splendid figure of raging majesty, hands clenched, eyes blazing, furiously erect.

“That man is outrageous!” she stormed.  “I cannot, and shall not, stand him any longer!  We must, and shall, get rid of him!” Her voice rang with its accustomed tone of all-conquering determination.  “Matilda, we are going to do it!  I say we are going to do it!”

Matilda gazed admiringly at her magnificently aroused mistress.  “Of course, you’ll do it, ma’am,” she said with conviction.

“I cannot endure him another minute!” Mrs. De Peyster raged on.  “At once, he goes out of this house!  Or we do!”

“Of course, ma’am,” repeated Matilda in her adoring voice.  And then after a moment, she added quaveringly:  “But please, ma’am,—­how are we going to do it?”

The outraged and annihilatory Mrs. De Peyster gazed at Matilda, utterer of practical common-places.  As she gazed the splendid flames within her seemed slowly to flicker out, and she sank back upon her bed.  Yes, how were they going to do it?

In cooler mood they discussed that question, without discovering a solution; discussed it until it was time for Matilda to go downstairs to perform her share of the preparation of the communal dinner.  Left alone, her fury now sunk to sober ashes, Mrs. De Peyster continued the exploration of possibilities, with the same negative result.

Matilda brought up her dinner on a tray, then returned to the kitchen; for though the others were all doing fair tasks, to Matilda of twenty years’ experience fell the oversight of the thousand details of the house.  Presently Mary appeared, on one of her visits of mercy—­full of relief that the cabinet-maker had ended his work so soon, thus setting Jack free.

But before beginning the anodynous “Wormwood,” she launched into another high-voltage eulogy of Angelica’s brother.  Even more than they had at first thought was he willing and competent and agreeable in the matter of their common household labor; he was not intrusive; he was rich with clever and well-informed talk when they all laid aside work to be sociable.  In fact, as she had said before, he was simply splendid!

“Now, I do hope, Angelica, that you are going to forgive your brother,” Mary insisted.  “He really means well.  I think he’s what he is because he has never had a fair chance.”  And then more boldly:  “I think the fault is largely yours and Matilda’s.  Matilda says your parents died when you were all young; and he admitted that he does not even remember them.  And he also admitted, when I pressed him, that you and Matilda had not given him very much attention during his boyhood.  You and Matilda are older; you should have brought him up more carefully; you are both seriously to blame for what he is.  So I hope,” she concluded, “that both of you will forgive him and help him.”