By this
time I'm probably a widow."
"I simply can't send away Gaspare," wailed Sophie; "I should never be
able to secure another omelette specialist."
"Any difficulty that I may experience in securing another husband is of
course a trifle beneath anyone's consideration," said Catherine bitterly.
Sophie capitulated. "Go," she said to Richardson, "and tell the Strike
Committee, or whoever are directing this affair, that Gaspare is herewith
dismissed. And ask Gaspare to see me presently in the library, when I
will pay him what is due to him and make what excuses I can; and then fly
back and finish my hair."
Some half an hour later Sophie marshalled her guests in the Grand Salon
preparatory to the formal march to the dining-room. Except that Henry
Malsom was of the ripe raspberry tint that one sometimes sees at private
theatricals representing the human complexion, there was little outward
sign among those assembled of the crisis that had just been encountered
and surmounted. But the tension had been too stupefying while it lasted
not to leave some mental effects behind it. Sophie talked at random to
her illustrious guest, and found her eyes straying with increasing
frequency towards the great doors through which would presently come the
blessed announcement that dinner was served. Now and again she glanced
mirror-ward at the reflection of her wonderfully coiffed hair, as an
insurance underwriter might gaze thankfully at an overdue vessel that had
ridden safely into harbour in the wake of a devastating hurricane.
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