And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.
Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come.
They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips.
As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place.
“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——”
“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.”
He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose.
Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer.
“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .”
“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——”
Jean stammered something about a booking-fee.
He came with them to the door and bowed them out.
The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . .
Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply.
_For two months certain . . . a country house in Wiltshire . . . one mile from the village . . . servants’ hall and bathroom . . . wages—three guineas a week, fuel and light . . . sole charge. . . ._
_As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._
The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day.
Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine like an old hound.
The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day.
The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the postman.