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tea. Dorinda wondered whether she would be having nursery tea, and felt selfishly relieved when she found that she wouldn’t. But she no longer expected Florence Cole to leave at the month. Her only doubt now was whether she would catch the last train tonight or the first tomorrow morning. In which case—no, she would not look after Marty—not for thousands a year—unless she had a free hand.
    She had tea with Mrs. Oakley in a distressingly feminine apartment which she was thrilled to hear her employer call the boudoir. Dorinda had never encountered a boudoir before except in an old-fashioned novel. It lived up to her fondest dreams, with a rose and ivory carpet, rose and ivory curtains lined with pink, a couch with more cushions than she had ever before seen assembled at one time, and a general air of being tiresomely expensive.
    Mrs. Oakley, in a rose-coloured negligée covered with frills, nestled among the cushions, whilst Dorinda sat on a horribly uncomfortable gold chair and poured out. Just as they were finishing, a knock came at the door. Mrs. Oakley said “Come in!” in rather a surprised voice, and Florence Cole, still in her outdoor things, advanced into the room. She wore an air of dogged purpose, and Dorinda knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth. She said it in quite a loud, determined voice.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Oakley, but I’m not staying. There’s a train at six, and I’m catching it. I’ve given that child his tea, and left him with the housemaid. She tells me his old nurse is in the village, and that she can manage him. I can’t. If there’s anyone who can, you’d better have her back. He’s just tried to pour the boiling kettle-water over my foot. If you ask me, he’s not safe.”
    “He has such high spirits,” said Mrs. Oakley.
    “He wants a good whipping!” said Miss Cole. A dull colour came into her face. “Are you going to pay me for the ten days I’ve put up with him, Mrs. Oakley? You’re not legally bound to, but I think anyone would say I’d earned it.”
    Mrs. Oakley looked bewildered.
    “I don’t know what I did with my purse,” she said. “It will be somewhere in my bedroom—if you don’t mind, Miss Brown. Perhaps you and Miss Cole could look for it together. It will be in that bag I had in the car.”
    When they had found it, and Florence Cole had been paid a generous addition to cover her railway fare, her manner softened.
    “If you like, Mrs. Oakley, I can stop and see Nurse Mason on my way through the village. Doris says I can’t miss the house.”
    Mrs. Oakley fluttered.
    “Oh, no, you can’t miss it. But perhaps she won’t come back. My husband thought Marty was getting too old for a nurse. She was very much upset about it. Perhaps she won’t come.”
    “Doris says she’ll jump at it,” said Florence Cole. “She says she’s devoted to Marty.” Her tone was that of one confronted by some phenomenon quite beyond comprehension.
    Mrs. Oakley continued to flutter.
    “Well, perhaps you’d better. But my husband mayn’t like it— perhaps Miss Brown—”
    “I couldn’t possibly,” said Dorinda with unmistakable firmness.
    Mrs. Oakley closed her eyes.
    “Well then, perhaps—yes, it will be very kind if you will—only I hope my husband—”
    Florence Cole said, “Goodbye, Mrs. Oakley,” and walked out of the room.
    Dorinda went out on to the landing with her and shook hands.
    “I hope you’ll get a nice job soon,” she said. “Have you anywhere to go?”
    “Yes, I’ve got a married sister. Are you going to stay?”
    “I shall if I can.”
    Florence Cole said, “Well, if you ask me, it’s the kind of place to get out of.”
    Dorinda remembered that afterwards.
    Chapter V
    It was about an hour and a half later that Dorinda knocked on what had been the nursery door. A voice said, “Come in!” and she had no sooner done so than she became aware that after a brief unhappy interlude as a schoolroom it had quite firmly