His appearance produced a perfect hush.  Except Barry and his own valet they were all there, the entire domestic staff of Wanhope:  and to face them was not the least courageous act that Lawrence had ever performed.  It was a large, comfortable room, lit by large windows overlooking the kitchen garden; a cheerful fire burnt in the grate this autumn morning, and in a big chair before it sat a cheerful, comely person in a print gown, in whom he recognized Mrs. Fryar the cook.  Gordon the chauffeur, a pragmatic young man from the Clyde, in this levelling hour was sitting on the edge of the table with a glass of beer in his hand.  Caroline, the Baptist housemaid, held the floor:  she was declaiming, when Lawrence entered, that it was a shame of Major Clowes and she didn’t care who heard her say so, but apparently Lawrence was an exception, for like all the rest she was instantly stricken dumb as the grave.

Lawrence remained standing in the open doorway.  He would have given a thousand pounds to be in morning attire, but no constraint was perceptible in the big, careless, impassive figure framed against the sunlit yard.

“Are you Mrs. Clowes’s maid?” he singled out a tall, rather stiff, quiet-looking girl in the plain black dress of her calling.  “Is your name Catherine?  I want to speak to you.”

She stood up—­they were all standing by now except Gordon—­but she looked at him very oddly, as if she were half frightened and half inclined to be familiar.  “I suppose you can tell me where my lady is, sir?”

“She is waiting for you,” said Lawrence.  “I say that I want to speak to you by yourself.  Come in here, please.”  Catherine continued to look as if she felt inclined to flounce and toss her head, but under his cold and steady eyes she thought better of it and followed him into the pantry.  Lawrence shut the door.

“I’d have gone to my lady, sir, if I’d known where she was.”

“You’re going to her now,” said Lawrence.  “I want you, please, to run up to her room and fetch some clothes, the sort of clothes she would wear to go out walking:  you understand what I mean?  A jacket and dress and hat, walking boots, a veil—­” Catherine intimated that she did understand:  much better than any gentleman, her smile implied.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “what you would like is for me to pack a small box for her, sir?  My lady will want a lot of things that gentlemen don’t think of:  underskirts and—­”

“Good God, what do I care?” said Lawrence impatiently.  “No, nothing of that sort:  take just what she wants to change out of evening dress into morning dress.  It’ll be only for a few hours.  Go and get them, and be as quick and quiet as you can.  Say nothing to Major Clowes.”  He laid his hand on her shoulder.  “Are you a decent girl, I wonder?”

She drew up and for the first time looked him straight in the eyes.  “If you mean, sir, that you’re going to take my poor lady away, why, I think it’s high time too.  I was always brought up respectable, but when it comes to a gentleman calling his own married wife such names, why, it’s time some one did interfere.  I heard him with my own ears call her a—­”