o remedy?"

She was taken with a sharp spasm of laughter, mirthless, but consciously
expressive of all the familiar processes of self-effacement under
torture.

"I arks nothing but my duty, sir," she said. "That is the myrrh and
balsam to a racking 'ed. Not but what I owns to a shrinking like unto
death over the thought of what lays before me this very morning. Rest and
quiet is needful, but it's little I shall get of either out of a kitching
fire in the dog days. And what would you fancy for your dinner, sir?"

"I am sorry," I murmured, "that you should suffer on my account. I
suppose there is nothing cold--"

"Not enough, sir, in all the 'ouse to bait a mousetrap. Nor would I
inconvenience you, if not for your own kind suggestion. But potted meats
is 'andy and ever sweet, and if I might make bold to propose a tin--"

"Very well. Get me what you like, Miss Whiffle."

"I must arks your pardin, sir. But to walk out in this 'eat, and every
rolling pebble under my foot a knife through my 'ed--no, sir. I make bold
to claim that consideration for myself."

"Leave it to me, then. I will do my own catering this morning."

Then I added, in the forlorn hope of justifying my moral ineptitude to
myself, "If you take my advice, you will lie down."

"And where, sir?" she answered, with a particularly patient smile. "The
beds is unmade as yet, sir," she went on, in a suffering decline, "and
rumpled sheets is thorns to a bursting brain."

Then she looked meaningly at the sitting-room sofa.

"I made bold to think, if you _'ad_ 'appened to been a-going to bathe,
the only quiet place in the 'ouse--" she murmured, in semi-detached
sentences, and put her hand to her brow.

Five minutes later (I fear no one will credit it) I was outside the
house, and Miss Whiffle was installed, towel and all, upon my sofa.

For a moment I really think the outrageous absurdity of the situation did
goad me to the tottering point of rebellion. I had not the courage,
however, to let myself go, and, as usual, succumbed to the tyranny of
circumstances.

It was a blazing morning. The flat sea lay panting on its coasts, as if,
for all its liquid sparkle, it were athirst; and the town, under the oven
of its hills, burned red-hot, like pottery in a kiln.

I went and bought my tinned meat (a form of preserve quite odious to me)
and strolled back disconsolately to the Parade. Occasionally, flitting
past the lantern window, I would steal a side glance