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order included in her house-party. She was broad-minded

enough to love the sinner while hating the sin - not that



she entertained any warm feeling of personal affection

for the Duke of Syria, who was a comparative stranger,



but still, as Duke of Syria, he was very, very welcome

beneath her roof. She could not have explained why, but



no one was likely to ask her for an explanation, and most

hostesses envied her.



"You must surpass yourself to-night, Richardson,"

she said complacently to her maid; "I must be looking my



very best. We must all surpass ourselves."

The maid said nothing, but from the concentrated



look in her eyes and the deft play of her fingers it was

evident that she was beset with the ambition to surpass



herself.

A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptory



knock, as of some one who would not be denied.

"Go and see who it is," said Sophie; "it may be



something about the wine."

Richardson held a hurriedconference with an



invisible messenger at the door; when she returned there

was noticeable a curious listlessness in place of her



hitherto alert manner.

"What is it?" asked Sophie.



"The household servants have 'downed tools,'

madame," said Richardson.



"Downed tools!" exclaimed Sophie; "do you mean to

say they've gone on strike?"



"Yes, madame," said Richardson, adding the

information: "It's Gaspare that the trouble is about."



"Gaspare?" said Sophie wanderingly; "the emergency

chef! The omelette specialist!"



"Yes, madame. Before he became an omelette

specialist he was a valet, and he was one of the strike-



breakers in the great strike at Lord Grimford's two years

ago. As soon as the household staff here learned that



you had engaged him they resolved to `down tools' as a

protest. They haven't got any grievance against you



personally, but they demand that Gaspare should be

immediately dismissed."



"But," protested Sophie, "he is the only man in

England who understands how to make a Byzantine omelette.



I engaged him specially for the Duke of Syria's visit,

and it would be impossible to replace him at short



notice. I should have to send to Paris, and the Duke

loves Byzantine omelettes. It was the one thing we



talked about coming from the station."

"He was one of the strike-breakers at Lord



Grimford's," reiterated Richardson.

"This is too awful," said Sophie; "a strike of



servants at a moment like this, with the Duke of Syria

staying in the house. Something must be done



immediately. Quick, finish my hair and I'll go and see

what I can do to bring them round."



"I can't finish your hair, madame," said Richardson

quietly, but with immense decision. "I belong to the



union and I can't do another half-minute's work till the

strike is settled. I'm sorry to be disobliging."



"But this is inhuman!" exclaimed Sophie tragically;

"I've always been a model mistress and I've refused to



employ any but union servants, and this is the result. I

can't finish my hair myself; I don't know how to. What



am I to do? It's wicked!"

"Wicked is the word," said Richardson; "I'm a good



Conservative and I've no patience with this Socialist

foolery, asking your pardon. It's tyranny, that's what



it is, all along the line, but I've my living to make,

same as other people, and I've got to belong to the



union. I couldn't touch another hair-pin without a

strike permit, not if you was to double my wages."



The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged into

the room.



"Here's a nice affair," she screamed, "a strike of

household servants without a moment's warning, and I'm






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