“Dear me!” thought Mrs. Salisbury, eating her chop and salad, her hot muffin and tart without much heart to appreciate these delicacies, “How much time I have spent in my life, going through imaginary conversations with maids!  Why couldn’t I just step to the pantry door and say, in a matter-of-fact tone, ’I’m afraid I must ask you to put the sitting-room in order, Justine.  Miss Sandy has apparently forgotten all about it.  I’ll see that it doesn’t occur again.’  And I could add—­now that I think of it—­’I will pay you for your extra time, if you like, and if you will remind me at the end of the month.’”

“Well, she may not like it, but she can’t refuse,” was her final summing up.  She went out to the kitchen with a deceptive air of composure.

Justine’s occupation, when Mrs. Salisbury found her, strengthened the older woman’s resolutions.  The maid, in a silent and spotless kitchen, was writing a letter.  Sheets of paper were strewn on the scoured white wood of the kitchen table; the writer, her chin cupped in her hand, was staring dreamily out of the kitchen window.  She gave her mistress an absent smile, then laid down her pen and stood up.

“I’m writing here,” she explained, “so that I can catch the milkman for the cream.”

Mrs. Salisbury knew that it was useless to ask if everything was in readiness for the evening’s event.  From where she stood she could see piles of plates already neatly ranged in the warming oven, peeled potatoes were soaking in ice water in a yellow bowl, and the parsley that would garnish the big platter was ready, crisp and fresh in a glass of water.

“Well, you look nice and peaceful,” smiled the mistress.  “I am just going to dress for a little tea, and I may have to look in at the opening of the Athenaeum Club,” she went on, fussing with a frill at her wrist, “so I may be as late as five.  But I’ll bring some flowers when I come.  Miss Alexandra will probably be at home by that time, but if she isn’t—­if she isn’t, perhaps you would just go in and straighten the living room, Justine?  I put things somewhat in order yesterday, and dusted a little, but, of course, things get scattered about, and it needs a little attention.  She may of course be back in time to do it—­”

Her voice drifted away into casual silence.  She looked at Justine expectantly, confidently.  The maid flushed uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” she said frankly.  “But that’s against one of our rules, you know.  I am not supposed to—­”

“Not ordinarily, I understand that,” Mrs. Salisbury agreed quickly.  “But in an emergency—­”

Again she hesitated.  And Justine, with the maddening gentleness of the person prepared to carry a point at all costs, answered again: 

“It’s the rule.  I’m sorry; but I am not supposed to.”

“I should suppose that you were in my house to make yourself useful to me,” Mrs. Salisbury said coldly.  She used a tone of quiet dignity; but she knew that she had had the worst of the encounter.  She was really a little dazed by the firmness of the rebuff.