ned house, and the domestic premises
were much the same as they had been in the eighteenth century, except
that Clowes had turned one wing of the stables into a garage and
rooms for the chauffeur. He kept no indoor menservants except Barry,
the groom and gardener living in the village, while three or four
maids were ample to wait on that quiet family. Pursuing the
tradesman's drive between coach-house, tool shed, coal shed, and
miscellaneous outbuildings, Lawrence emerged on a brick yard, ducked
under a clothes-line, made for an open doorway, and found himself in
the scullery. It was empty, and he went on into a big old-fashioned
kitchen, draughty enough with its high roof and blue plastered walls.
Here, too, there was not a soul to be seen: a kettle was furiously
boiling over on the hob, a gas ring was running to waste near by,
turned on but left unlit and volleying evil fumes. His next
researches carried him into a flagged passage, on his right a sunlit
pantry, on his left a dingy alcove evidently dedicated to the
trimming of lamps and the cleaning of boots. He began to wonder if
every one had run away. But no: a sharp turn, a couple of steps, and
he came on an inner door, comfortably covered with green baize,
through which issued a perfect hubbub of voices all talking at once.
He listened long enough to hear himself characterized by a baritone
as a stinking Jew, and by a treble as not her style and a bit too gay
but quite the gentleman, before he raised the latch and stepped in.

His appearance produced a perfect hush. Except Barry and his own
valet they were all there, the entire domestic staff of Wanhope:
and to face them was not the least courageous act that Lawrence
had ever performed. It was a large, comfortable room, lit by
large windows overlooking the kitchen garden; a cheerful fire
burnt in the grate this autumn morning, and in a big chair before
it sat a cheerful, comely person in a print gown, in whom he
recognized Mrs. Fryar the cook. Gordon the chauffeur, a
pragmatic young man from the Clyde, in this levelling hour was
sitting on the edge of the table with a glass of beer in his
hand. Caroline, the Baptist housemaid, held the floor: she was
declaiming, when Lawrence entered, that it was a shame of Major
Clowes and she didn't care who heard her say so, but apparently
Lawrence was an exception, for like all the rest she was
instantly stricken dumb as the grave.

Lawrence remained standing in t