“It’s a much larger box,” she protested sharply.

“Yes.  I know it is—­outside.  But the lining only holds two more knobs than the sixpenny ones.”

Mrs. Lawrence frowned.

“Do I understand that you—­you actually measured the amount it contains?” she asked, with bitterness.

“Yes,” retorted Miss Bunting valiantly.  “And compared it with the others.  It was when you told me to put the eightpenny scuttle in Miss Jenkins’ room.  She complained at once.”

“Then you exceeded your duties, Miss Bunting.  You should have referred Miss Jenkins to me.”

Miss Bunting made no reply.  She had acted precisely in the way suggested, but Miss Jenkins, a young art-student of independent opinions, had flatly declined to be “referred” to Mrs. Lawrence.

“It’s not the least use, Bunty dear,” she had said.  “I’m not going to have half an hour’s acrimonious conversation with Mrs. Lawrence on the subject of twopennyworth of coal.  At the same time I haven’t the remotest intention of paying twopence extra for those two lumps of excess luggage, so to speak.  So you can just trot that sarcophagus away, like the darling you are, and bring me back my sixpenny scuttle again.”

And little Miss Bunting, in her capacity of buffer state between Mrs. Lawrence and her boarders, had obeyed and said nothing more about the matter.

“I have to go out now,” continued Mrs. Lawrence, after a pause pregnant with rebuke.  “You will receive Miss Quentin on her arrival and attend to her comfort.  And put the large coal-box in her sitting-room as I directed,” she added firmly.

So it came about that when, half an hour later, a taxi-cab buzzed up to the door of No. 24, with Diana and a large quantity of luggage on board, the former found herself met in the hall by a cheerful little person with pretty brown eyes and a friendly smile to whom she took an instant liking.

Miss Bunting escorted Diana up to her rooms on the second floor, while Henri brought up the rear, staggering manfully beneath the weight of Miss Quentin’s trunk.

A cheerful fire was blazing in the grate, and that, together with the daffodils that gleamed from a bowl on the table like a splash of gold, gave the room a pleasant and welcoming appearance.

“But, surely,” said Diana hesitatingly, “you are not Mrs. Lawrence?”

Miss Bunting laughed, outright.

“Oh, dear no,” she answered.  “Mrs. Lawrence is out, and she asked me to see that you had everything you wanted.  I’m the lady-help, you know.”

Diana regarded her commiseratingly.  She seemed such a jolly, bright little thing to be occupying that anomalous position.

“Oh, are you?  Then it was you”—­with a sudden, inspiration—­“who put these lovely daffodils here, wasn’t it? . . .  Thank you so much for thinking of it—­it was kind of you.”  And she held out her hand with the frank charm of manner which invariably turned Diana’s acquaintances into friends inside ten minutes.