Old Nick tore up this effusion, and inserted his own, which said:
"Lady, middle-aged, thoroughly capable cook and housekeeper, wanted for elderly gentleman's house in seaport town. Remuneration by arrangement; ability and pleasant companionship most essential. Particulars to 'Cookery,' c/o this paper."
During the week that followed Old Nick was positively inundated with applications. There were cook-maids, hot and cold, with years of experience at first-class hotels; reliable women from outlying country districts; widows from small townships up and down the coast; while a "clergyman's daughter, aged twenty-three," who already considered herself middle-aged, gave Old Nick some food for thought.
Among all these various documents, some large, and small, and bold, others timidly small, was a little pink envelope addressed in a delicate hand. The letter contained, ran as follows:
"DEAR SIR,--In reply to your advertisement in to-day's paper I venture to offer my services as housekeeper. I am a widow without encumbrance, age thirty-seven, with long experience of keeping house, and able to undertake any reasonable work desired.
"I am of a bright and cheerful temper, with many interests, musical, good reader, and would do my utmost to make your home pleasant and comfortable in every way.
"Trusting to be favoured with a reply, when further particulars can be forwarded.--I beg to remain, yours very truly,
Old Nick sat for a long while staring thoughtfully before him.
"Widow, thirty-seven, long experience of keeping house, bright and cheerful temper.... I tell you what, Nachmann, this looks like what we want."
"Heavens, man, but she's musical--what do you want with that sort of thing in the house? No, no, my friend; the devil take that widow for his housekeeper--not you. She'd play you out of house and home in no time, my boy."
"Well, you know, really, I was getting a bit sick of old Marthe. Felt the lack of refined womanly influence now and again. And I must say this--what's her name--Emilie Rantzau rather appeals to me. There's something, I don't know what to call it, about her letter. Sort of ladylike, you know."
"Yes, and perfumed too, lovely, m-m-m. Patchouli!" said Nachmann, holding the envelope to Nickelsen's nose.