He had, in fact, arrived at the stage where Gladys irritated him.  So had we.  But unlike William we could not get away from her.  Her visit had already extended two weeks and was melting into a third, and she gave no hint of returning home.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if only she had been quiet, but she is the most restless person I have ever known.  She was always running up and down stairs, banging doors, playing fragments on the piano, and dashing into the study to talk to Henry when he was writing.

He is, on the whole, an equable man, but more than once I trembled for the consequences when I saw her go up to him, lean over his shoulder and, snatching at some loose pages of his MS., playfully remark, ’What funny crabbed letters!  And what is it all about—­something you’re inventing to deceive us poor public, I’ll be bound.  I don’t believe a word of what you’re writing, so there!’

Henry used to say scorching things about Gladys when we retired at night (the only chance we seemed to have now of being alone was in our bedroom), and would ask me when I meant to tell her to go.  I suggested he should tell her himself, and he declared it was not the duty of the host.  I replied that it was the first time I’d ever heard it was the duty of the hostess either.

We planned to make little speeches in her presence based on the subject of her departure, and fraught with deep and subtle allusion, but she ignored them.  We inquired if her mother did not miss her after such a prolonged absence, and she said they rather liked her to be away from home for a few months in the year, as a change was always good.  No doubt it was good for her people, but it was bad for Henry and me.

Then one night Henry revolted.  ’If she hasn’t gone in another two days,’ he informed me, ‘I’m going to get rooms at an hotel.’

He spoke as if he meant it, and I was mournfully wondering what I ought to do to get Gladys to go, short of being downright rude, when Elizabeth drifted into the problem.

’If Miss ‘Arringay’s goin’ to stop much longer, I ain’t,’ she announced.  ‘She makes too much extry work, an’ the sight o’ ’er about the place fair riles me.’

I looked wearily at Elizabeth.  ’No doubt Miss Harringay will be going soon,’ I said with an utter lack of conviction.

Elizabeth approached me, and bending down, said in a hoarse whisper, ’Wot is it—­carn’t you get rid of ‘er?’

[Illustration:  ’Carn’t you get rid of ‘er?’]

I did not reply, feeling it distasteful to discuss my guest with a domestic, though I could not refrain from discussing her with Henry.

‘Tell you wot you orter do,’ said the fertile Elizabeth, ’send for Miss Marryun to come ‘ere unexpected, an’ then tell Miss ’Arringay you’ll want ‘er room.’

‘But—­but I’ve got another spare room.  Miss Harringay knows that.’

Elizabeth winked:  I pretended not to see it, but there was no mistaking the distinct muscular movement of her left eyelid.  ’No you ‘aven’t,’ she said stoutly.  ’You ’avent got any proper bedding in the spare room now, ‘ave you?’