Jonah disregarded the interruption.

“At the last moment,” he said calmly, “I felt there might be some mix-up, so I came along too.”  He turned and nodded at a nervous little man who was standing self-consciously a few paces away and, as I now observed for the first time, carrying my cousin’s dressing-case.  “That,” he added, “is Camille.”

His momentous announcement rendered us speechless.  At length—­

“You—­you mean to say,” I gasped, “that—­that it’s a man?”

Jonah shrugged his shoulders.

“Look at his trousers,” he said.

“But—­but of course we expected a woman,” cried Jill in a choking voice.  “We can’t have a chef.”

“Nothing,” said Jonah, “was said about sex.”

Berry spoke in a voice shaken with emotion.

“A man,” he said.  “A he-cook, called ‘Camille.’  And it actually occurred to you that ‘there might be some mix-up.’  You know, your intuition is positively supernatural.  And it is for this,” he added bitterly, “that I have dissipated in ten crowded minutes a reputation which it has taken years to amass.  It is for this that I have deliberately insulted several respectable ladies, jeopardized the Entente Cordiale, and invited personal violence of a most unpleasant character.  To do this I shall have travelled about a hundred and fifty miles, with the shade temperature at ninety, and lost what would have been an undoubtedly pleasant and possibly extremely fruitful day at Sandown Park.  Don’t be afraid.  I wouldn’t touch you for worlds.  You’re being reserved for some very special form of dissolution, you are.  She-bears, or something.  I should avoid woods, any way.  And now I’m going home.  To-morrow I shall start on a walking tour, with a spare sock and some milk chocolate, and try to forget.  If that fails, I shall take the snail—­I mean the veil.”

He turned on his heel and stalked haughtily in the direction of the boat train.

Gurgling with merriment, Jill laid a hand on my arm.

“Daphne will simply scream,” she said.

“If this little stunt has cost us Pauline,” said I, “she won’t leave it at that.”

We turned to follow my brother-in-law.

Jonah beckoned to Camille.

“Venez.  Restez pres de moi,” he said.

On arriving at Charing Cross we left Jonah and the cook to weather the Customs, and drove straight to Cholmondeley Street.

As we entered the hall, my sister came flying out of the library.

“Hello,” she cried, “where’s the cook?  Don’t say——­”

Berry uncovered.

“Pardon, madame,” he said, “mais vous etes Camille Franc——­That’s your cue.  Now you say ‘Serwine!’ Just like that.  ‘Serwine!’ Put all the loathing you can into it—­you’ll find it can hold quite a lot—­and fix me with a glassy eye.  Then I blench and break out Into a cold sweat.  Oh, it’s a great game.”