“Also do not order strawberries till I have consulted with the other ladies,” said Lady Caroline, remembering that it was only the first of April, and that perhaps people who lived in Hampstead might be poor; indeed, must be poor, or why live in Hampstead?  “It is not I who am mistress here.”

“Is it the old one?” asked Costanza, her face very long.

“No,” said Lady Caroline.

“Which of the other two ladies is it?”

“Neither,” said Lady Caroline.

Then Costanza’s smiles returned, for the young lady was having fun with her and making jokes.  She told her so, in her friendly Italian way, and was genuinely delighted.

“I never make jokes,” said Lady Caroline briefly.  “You had better go, or lunch will certainly not be ready by half-past twelve.”

And these curt words came out sounding so sweet that Costanza felt as if kind compliments were being paid her, and forgot her disappointment about the cream and the chickens, and went away all gratitude and smiles.

“This,” thought Lady Caroline, “will never do.  I haven’t come here to housekeep, and I won’t.”

She called Costanza back.  Costanza came running.  The sound of her name in that voice enchanted her.

“I have ordered the lunch for to-day,” said Lady Caroline, with the serious angel face that was hers when she was annoyed, “and I have also ordered the dinner, but from now on you will go to one of the other ladies for orders.  I give no more.”

The idea that she would go on giving orders was too absurd.  She never gave orders at home.  Nobody there dreamed of asking her to do anything.  That such a very tiresome activity should be thrust upon her here, simply because she happened to be able to talk Italian, was ridiculous.  Let the originals give orders if Mrs. Fisher refused to.  Mrs. Fisher, of course, was the one Nature intended for such a purpose.  She had the very air of a competent housekeeper.  Her clothes were the clothes of a housekeeper, and so was the way she did her hair.

Having delivered herself of her ultimatum with an acerbity that turned sweet on the way, and accompanied it by a peremptory gesture of dismissal that had the grace and loving-kindness of a benediction, it was annoying that Costanza should only stand still with her head on one side gazing at her in obvious delight.

“Oh, go away!” exclaimed Lady Caroline in English, suddenly exasperated.

There had been a fly in her bedroom that morning which had stuck just as Costanza was sticking; only one, but it might have been a myriad it was so tiresome from daylight on.  It was determined to settle on her face, and she was determined it should not.  Its persistence was uncanny.  It woke her, and would not let her go to sleep again.  She hit at it, and it eluded her without fuss or effort and with an almost visible blandness, and she had only hit herself.  It came back again instantly, and