“I’m glad.”

“You don’t feel any misgivings now that you are actually committed to domestic service?”

“Not one.”

Joan, against her will, smiled approval on this uncompromising attitude.  This young man might be her rival, but his demeanor on the eve of perilous times appealed to her.  That was the spirit she liked and admired—­that reckless acceptance of whatever might come.  It was the spirit in which she herself had gone into the affair and she was pleased to find that it animated Ashe also—­though, to be sure, it had its drawbacks.  It made his rivalry the more dangerous.  This reflection injected a touch of the old hostility into her manner.

“I wonder whether you will continue to feel so brave.”

“What do you mean?”

Joan perceived that she was in danger of going too far.  She had no wish to unmask Ashe at the expense of revealing her own secret.  She must resist the temptation to hint that she had discovered his.

“I meant,” she said quickly, “that from what I have seen of him Mr. Peters seems likely to be a rather trying man to work for.”

Ashe’s face cleared.  For a moment he had almost suspected that she had guessed his errand.

“Yes.  I imagine he will be.  He is what you might call quick-tempered.  He has dyspepsia, you know.”

“I know.”

“What he wants is plenty of fresh air and no cigars, and a regular course of those Larsen Exercises that amused you so much.”

Joan laughed.

“Are you going to try and persuade Mr. Peters to twist himself about like that?  Do let me see it if you do.”

“I wish I could.”

“Do suggest it to him.”

“Don’t you think he would resent it from a valet?”

“I keep forgetting that you are a valet.  You look so unlike one.”

“Old Peters didn’t think so.  He rather complimented me on my appearance.  He said I was ordinary-looking.”

“I shouldn’t have called you that.  You look so very strong and fit.”

“Surely there are muscular valets?”

“Well, yes; I suppose there are.”

Ashe looked at her.  He was thinking that never in his life had he seen a girl so amazingly pretty.  What it was that she had done to herself was beyond him; but something, some trick of dress, had given her a touch of the demure that made her irresistible.  She was dressed in sober black, the ideal background for her fairness.

“While on the subject,” he said, “I suppose you know you don’t look in the least like a lady’s maid?  You look like a disguised princess.”

She laughed.

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Marson, but you’re quite wrong.  Anyone could tell I was a lady’s maid, a mile away.  You aren’t criticizing the dress, surely?”

“The dress is all right.  It’s the general effect.  I don’t think your expression is right.  It’s—­it’s—­there’s too much attack in it.  You aren’t meek enough.”