“Snee,” says Doris, her upper lip trembling “you—­you may take it away.”

“Back to the kitchen, ma’am?” asks Cyril.

“Ye-es,” says Doris.  “Certainly.”

“Very well, ma’am,” says Cyril, sort of tragic and mysterious.

He hadn’t more’n got through the swing-door before Doris slumps in her chair, puts her face into her hands, and begins lettin’ out the sobs reckless.  Course, Westy jumps to the rescue and starts pattin’ her on the back and offerin’ soothin’ words.  So does Vee.

“There, there!” says Vee.  “We don’t mind a bit.  Such things are bound to happen.”

“But I—­I don’t know what to do,” sobs Doris.  “It’s—­it’s been getting worse every day.  They began all right—­the servants, I mean.  But yesterday Marie was impudent, and to-night Helma has gone out when she shouldn’t, and now Cook has spoiled everything, and—­”

We ain’t favored with the rest of the sad tale, for just then there’s a quick scuff of feet, and Cyril comes skatin’ through the pantry door and does a frantic dive behind the sideboard.

Doris straightens up, brushes her eyes clear, and makes a brave stab at bein’ dignified.

“Snee,” says she, real reprovin’.

“I—­I beg pardon, ma’am,” says Cyril, edgin’ out and revealin’ a broad black smooch on his shirt-front as well as a few other un-butlery signs.

“Why, whatever has happened to yon?” demands Doris.

“I’m not complaining, ma’am,” says Cyril; “but Cook, you see, she—­she didn’t like it because of my bringing back the roast.  And I’m not very good at dodging, ma’am.”

“Oh!” says Doris, shudderin’.

“It struck me here, ma’am,” says Cyril, indicatin’ the exact spot.

“Yes, yes, I see,” says Doris.  “I—­I’m sorry, Snee.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” objects Cyril.  “My fault entirely.  I should have jumped quicker.  And it might have been the pudding.  That wouldn’t have hit so hard, but it would have splashed more.  You see, ma’am, I—­”

“Never mind, Snee,” cuts in Doris, tryin’ to stop him.

“I don’t, ma’am, I assure you,” says Cyril, pluckin’ a spray of parsley off his collar.  “I was only going to remark what a wonderful true eye Cook has, ma’am; and her in liquor, at that.”

“Oh, oh!” squeals Doris panicky.

“It began when I brought her the brandy for the pudding sauce, ma’am,” goes on Cyril, real chatty.  “She’d had only one glass when she begins chucking me under the chin and calling me Dearie.  Not that I ever gave her any cause, ma’am, to—­”

“Please!” wails Doris.  “Harold!  Stop him, can’t you?”

And say, can you see Sappy Westlake stoppin’ anything?  Specially such a runnin’ stream as this here now Cyril.  But he comes to life for one faint effort.

“I say, you know,” he starts in, “perhaps you’d best say no more about it, Snee.”

“As you like, sir,” says Cyril.  “Only, I don’t wish my feelings considered.  Not in the least.  If you care to send back the salad I will gladly—­”