“I shall not sleep under your roof another night.”  Mrs. Maper paused so abruptly that her forefinger fell limp.  She was not sure she meant to give her companion notice, and have the trouble of training another, and she certainly did not wish to be dismissed instead of dismissing.

“Silly chit!” she said in more conciliatory tones.  “And where will you sleep?”

But Eileen now felt she must obey her own voice—­the voice of her outraged pride, perhaps even of Brian Boru himself.  “Good-by.  I’ll take some things in a handbag and send for my box in the morning.”

Mrs. Maper’s hand pointed to the ceiling.  “And is that the way you treat a lady—­you’re no lady, I tell you that.  I demand a month’s notice or I shall summons you.”

At this juncture it occurred to Eileen that this might have been her mother-in-law, and a smile danced into her eyes.

“Himpudent Hirish hussy!  Oh, but I’ll have the lore of you.  Don’t forget I’m the wife of a Justice of the Peace.”

“Very well; you get Justice, I want Peace.”  And Eileen fled to her room.

She had hardly begun packing her handbag when she heard the door locked from the outside with a savage snap and a cry of, “I’ll learn you who’s mistress here, my lady.”

Eileen smiled.  She was only on the second floor, and captivity revived all her girlish prankishness.  She now began to enjoy the whole episode.  That she was out of place, out of character, out of lodging even, was nothing beside the humour of this incursion into real life of the melodrama she had mocked at.  Was she not the innocent heroine entrapped by the villain?  Fortunately, she would not need the hero to rescue her.  She went on packing.  When her handbag was ready she looked about for means to escape.  She opened her windows and studied the drop and the odd bits of helpful rainpipe.  Descent was not so easy as she had imagined.  Short of tearing the sheets into strips (and that might really bring her within the J.P.’s purview) or of picking the lock (which seemed even more burglarious, not to mention more difficult) she might really remain trapped.  However, there would be time to think properly when she had packed her big box.  Half an hour passed cheerfully in the folding of dresses to an underplay of planned escapes, and she had just locked the box, when Mrs. Maper’s voice pierced the door panel.

“Well, are you ready to come to supper?”

The governess’s instinct corrected “dinner.”  Mrs. Maper when excited was always tripping into this betrayal of auld lang syne, but she preserved a disdainful silence.

“Eileen, why don’t you hanser?”

Still silence.  The key grated in the lock.

Eileen looked round desperately.  The thought of meeting Mrs. Maper again was intolerable.  The mirrored door of the rifled wardrobe stood ajar, revealing an enticing emptiness.  Snatching up her handbag and her hat, she crept inside and closed the door noiselessly upon herself.  “The wardrobe mouse,” she thought, smiling.