rsonally, but they demand that
Gaspare should be immediately dismissed."

"But," protested Sophie, "he is the only man in England who understands
how to make a Byzantine omelette. I engaged him specially for the Duke
of Syria's visit, and it would be impossible to replace him at short
notice. I should have to send to Paris, and the Duke loves Byzantine
omelettes. It was the one thing we talked about coming from the
station."

"He was one of the strike-breakers at Lord Grimford's," reiterated
Richardson.

"This is too awful," said Sophie; "a strike of servants at a moment like
this, with the Duke of Syria staying in the house. Something must be
done immediately. Quick, finish my hair and I'll go and see what I can
do to bring them round."

"I can't finish your hair, madame," said Richardson quietly, but with
immense decision. "I belong to the union and I can't do another half-
minute's work till the strike is settled. I'm sorry to be disobliging."

"But this is inhuman!" exclaimed Sophie tragically; "I've always been a
model mistress and I've refused to employ any but union servants, and
this is the result. I can't finish my hair myself; I don't know how to.
What am I to do? It's wicked!"

"Wicked is the word," said Richardson; "I'm a good Conservative and I've
no patience with this Socialist foolery, asking your pardon. It's
tyranny, that's what it is, all along the line, but I've my living to
make, same as other people, and I've got to belong to the union. I
couldn't touch another hair-pin without a strike permit, not if you was
to double my wages."

The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged into the room.

"Here's a nice affair," she screamed, "a strike of household servants
without a moment's warning, and I'm left like this! I can't appear in
public in this condition."

After a very hasty scrutiny Sophie assured her that she could not.

"Have they all struck?" she asked her maid.

"Not the kitchen staff," said Richardson, "they belong to a different
union."

"Dinner at least will be assured," said Sophie, "that is something to be
thankful for."

"Dinner!" snorted Catherine, "what on earth is the good of dinner when
none of us will be able to appear at it? Look at your hair--and look at
me! or rather, don't."

"I know it's difficult to manage without a maid; can't your husband be
any help to you?" asked Sophie despairingly.

"Henry? He's in worse case than any of us. His man is