“Well, you’ll have to get it. I’ve asked them.”

Pierre, notified in his kitchen, stubbornly refused to do anything about it, and Tony flung out of the house in a rage and went down to the Beverly Hotel, the country club dining room being closed. Had it not been for Maud I am sure he would have thrown them all out; but we were trying to keep everything quiet on her account. And poor old Partridge, wringing her hands, came to me almost in tears. “The shops are closed, Miss Pat,” she said. “What am I to do?”

“What about the servants’ dinner?”

“They had it in the middle of the day. They had their supper at five-thirty, as usual.”

It was dark and very cold, but late as it was I took Gus and the station wagon and drove down to the village. The shops were closed, but I routed the butcher and the grocer from their homes, and before eight I walked into Pierre’s kitchen, followed by Gus laden with parcels. Pierre was standing with his arms folded, his cap over his forehead and his eyes glaring, while the kitchen maids were cowering in a corner. He did not move when I entered.

“I’m sorry, Pierre,” I said. “I’ve done the best I could.”

“I cook no food for the drunken crowd,” he said implacably. “Me, Pierre, I am employed by Mrs. Wainwright. Not by that woman.”

“Then get out of the way,” I said, as angry as he. “I can cook, and I will. I’ll not have Mrs. Wainwright worried with this, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

I rolled up my sleeves and began opening the parcels. Then—whether my mention of Maud or the sight of English mutton chops did it I do not know—he turned suddenly on the shivering women in the corner.

“Come out of there and get busy,” he said. “I’ll have no good food spoiled while I’m in charge of this kitchen. Get out of my way, Miss Pat. You and your cooking!”

Maud ate her dinner upstairs that night, and I ate with her. She had been using the telephone when I went in, and she looked pale but composed. She ate very little. I remember that even in that vast house the noise from downstairs reached us, but she made no comment. Only once did she seem to notice it, and that was indirectly. She leaned over and touched my hand. “I wonder if you will ever know what a comfort you have been to me, Pat. I hope and pray that some day Tony and you will marry. He’s so frightfully in love with you, my dear.”

Hilda put her to bed after dinner. As I have said, Amy had gone for good, after warning me to be careful of what she called “that little hell-cat,” and shedding a few tears over the jeweled wrist watch which was Maud’s farewell gift. Maud had asked me to wait until she was settled, and when she called me she was alone, sitting up in her bed.