Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon.  I waved my hand.  He introduced her.  Is it necessary to say that she expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth and breathing through her nose?  To the student of female human nature in the lower orders, surely not.

Let me do the girl justice.  Her shoes did not creak.  But why do Young Persons in service all perspire at the hands?  Why have they all got fat noses and hard cheeks?  And why are their faces so sadly unfinished, especially about the corners of the eyelids?  I am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men, who are.  Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?

“You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe?  Put it down on the table, please, and don’t upset anything.  How is Miss Halcombe?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

“And Lady Glyde?”

I received no answer.  The Young Person’s face became more unfinished than ever, and I think she began to cry.  I certainly saw something moist about her eyes.  Tears or perspiration?  Louis (whom I have just consulted) is inclined to think, tears.  He is in her class of life, and he ought to know best.  Let us say, tears.

Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears.  Tears are scientifically described as a Secretion.  I can understand that a secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of a secretion from a sentimental point of view.  Perhaps my own secretions being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject.  No matter.  I behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and feeling.  I closed my eyes and said to Louis—­

“Endeavour to ascertain what she means.”

Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured.  They succeeded in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common gratitude to say, they really amused me.  I think I shall send for them again when I am in low spirits.  I have just mentioned this idea to Louis.  Strange to say, it seems to make him uncomfortable.  Poor devil!

Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece’s maid’s explanation of her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet?  The thing is manifestly impossible.  I can give my own impressions and feelings perhaps.  Will that do as well?  Please say, Yes.

My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her master had dismissed her from her mistress’s service. (Observe, throughout, the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person.  Was it my fault that she had lost her place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the inn to sleep. (I don’t keep the inn—­why mention it to me?) Between six o’clock and seven Miss Halcombe had come to say good-bye, and had given her two letters, one for me, and one