But five minutes later the cook herself appeared at the morning-room door.  She was a stout person, who panted, and respectfully removed beads of perspiration from her brow with a clean handkerchief.

She was as nearly pale as a heated person of her weight may be.

“And what has happened now, cook?” asked Lady Maria.

“That Buggle, your ladyship,” said cook, “says your ladyship can’t be no sorrier than he is, but when fish goes bad in a night it can’t be made fresh in the morning.  He brought it that I might see it for myself, and it is in a state as could not be used by any one.  I was that upset, your ladyship, that I felt like I must come and explain myself.”

“What can be done?” exclaimed Lady Maria.  “Emily, do suggest something.”

“We can’t even be sure,” said the cook, “that Batch has what would suit us.  Batch sometimes has it, but he is the fishmonger at Maundell, and that is four miles away, and we are short-’anded, your ladyship, now the ’ouse is so full, and not a servant that could be spared.”

“Dear me!” said Lady Maria.  “Emily, this is really enough to drive one quite mad.  If everything was not out of the stables, I know you would drive over to Maundell.  You are such a good walker,”—­catching a gleam of hope,—­“do you think you could walk?”

Emily tried to look cheerful.  Lady Maria’s situation was really an awful one for a hostess.  It would not have mattered in the least if her strong, healthy body had not been so tired.  She was an excellent walker, and ordinarily eight miles would have meant nothing in the way of fatigue.  She was kept in good training by her walking in town, Springy moorland swept by fresh breezes was not like London streets.

“I think I can manage it,” she said nice-temperedly.  “If I had not run about so much yesterday it would be a mere nothing.  You must have the fish, of course.  I will walk over the moor to Maundell and tell Batch it must be sent at once.  Then I will come back slowly.  I can rest on the heather by the way.  The moor is lovely in the afternoon.”

“You dear soul!” Lady Maria broke forth.  “What a boon you are to a woman!”

She felt quite grateful.  There arose in her mind an impulse to invite Emily Fox-Seton to remain the rest of her life with her, but she was too experienced an elderly lady to give way to impulses.  She privately resolved, however, that she would have her a good deal in South Audley Street, and would make her some decent presents.

When Emily Fox-Seton, attired for her walk in her shortest brown linen frock and shadiest hat, passed through the hall, the post-boy was just delivering the midday letters to a footman.  The servant presented his salver to her with a letter for herself lying upon the top of one addressed in Lady Claraway’s handwriting “To the Lady Agatha Slade.”  Emily recognised it as one of the epistles of many sheets which so often made poor Agatha shed slow and depressed tears.  Her own letter was directed in the well-known hand of Mrs. Cupp, and she wondered what it could contain.