Then came a swift rush across the hall, and Daphne and Jill pelted into the room.

“She’s coming up for an interview to-morrow,” panted the latter.  “Six years in her last place, but the people are going abroad.  If we engage her, she can come on Monday.  Sixty pounds a year.”

Daphne was beaming.

“I must say I liked the sound of her.  Very respectful she seemed.  Her name’s rather unusual, but that isn’t her fault.  Pauline Roper.  I fancy she’s by way of being an expert.  She’s got a certificate from some institute of cookery, and her sister’s a trained nurse in Welbeck Street.  That’s why she wants to be in London.  What’s the return fare from Torquay?” she added.  “I said I’d pay it, if I took up her reference.”

“Oh, something under five pounds,” said Berry.

“What!”

“My dear,” said her husband, “if the expenditure of that sum were to ensure me a breakfast the very sight of which did not make my gorge rise, I should regard it as a trustee investment.”

Reference to a time-table showed that the price of Pauline Roper’s ticket would be two pounds nine shillings and fourpence halfpenny.

Somewhat to our surprise and greatly to our relief, the day passed without another application for the post of cook, personal or otherwise.

To celebrate the solitary but promising response to our S.O.S. signal, and the prospect which it afforded of an early deliverance from our state, we dined at the Berkeley and went to the play.

On returning home we found a telegram in the hall.  It had been handed in at Paris, and ran as follows: 

Cook called Camille Francois leaving for Cholmondeley Street to-morrow aaa can speak no English so must be met at Dover aaa boat due 4.15 aaa Jonah.

* * * * *

The train roared through Ashford, and Berry looked at his watch.  Then he sighed profoundly and began to commune with himself in a low tone.

“Mille pardons, madame.  Mais vous etes Camille Francois?  Non?  Quel dommage!  Dix mille pardons.  Adieu. ...  Deuce of a lot of ‘milles,’ aren’t there?  I wonder if there’ll be many passengers.  And will she come first-class, or before the mast?  You know, this is a wild mare’s chest, and that’s all there is to it.  We shall insult several hundred women, miss the cook, and probably lose Pauline into the bargain.  What did I come for?”

“Nonsense,” said Jill stoutly.  “Jonah’s told her to look out for us.”

“I’ll bet he never thought I should be fool enough to roll up, so she won’t expect me.  As a matter of fact, if he’s described any one, he’s probably drawn a lifelike word-picture of Daphne.”

“It’s no good worrying,” said I.  “The only thing to do is to address every woman who looks in the least like a cook as she steps off the gangway.  When we do strike her, Jill can carry on.”